Gleanings 


VIRGINIA  WAINWRIGHT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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Gleanings 

From  the  Writings  of 

VIRGINIA  WAINWRIGHT 

Written  between  the  ages  of 
7  and  17 


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GLEANINGS 

From  the  Writings  of 

VIRGINIA  WAINWRIGHT 

Written  between  the  ages  of 
7  and  17 


A    BOOK    FOR    OLD    AND    YOUNG 


A   Collection  of   Poems,  Stories,   Essays, 
Anecdotes,   Descriptions,   Etc. 


SMITHSONIAN    PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright  1920 

BY  VIRGINIA  WAINWRIGHT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  September,   1920 


Dedicated  to 

ALL  THE  BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE 

(The  pine-woods,  the  sea,  the  hills,  the  trees  covered 
with  snow,  the  green  things  growing,  the  beautiful 
flowers  of  lovely  colors  exhaling  delicate  perfumes, 
the  June  wind,  the  sunsets,  the  reflections  of  silver 
birch-trees  in  the  limpid  water,  the  spray  dashed  high 
on  the  rugged  rocks,  the  full  moon  shining  on  the  water, 
and  many  other  wonders  bestowed  upon  Man.) 

By 
A  LOVER  OF  NATURE 


Preface 


One  rainy  afternoon,  a  short  time  ago,  when  I  was  hunting  in 
the  bottom  of  one  of  my  trunks,  filled  with  childhood's  souvenirs 
and  treasures,  for  the  booklet  of  the  words  of  some  French  songs, 
sung  by  Maggie  Teyte  (whom  I  have  always  admired  as  an  in 
terpreter  of  modern  French  vocal  compositions),  I  happened  to 
run  across  some  of  my  literary  effusions — many  of  which  had 
appeared  in  past  years  in  various  papers — written  when  I  had 
leisure  moments  in  my  younger  days ;  and  the  idea  struck  me  that 
I  might  send  them  out  among  my  friends.  With  the  clippings 
and  manuscripts  I  also  found  several  encouraging  letters  from 
editors,  strangers  to  me.  One  letter  was  from  an  editor  in 
central  Massachusetts,  asking  me  to  write  for  his  paper,  and  to 
become  a  member  of  a  Literary  Club  and  also  of  a  Press  Asso 
ciation.  There  were  also  some  letters  from  interested  strangers, 
who  had  read  my  newspaper  articles,  asking  me  to  correspond 
with  them.  The  clippings  are  reminders  of  the  days  of  my 
youth,  and  as  I  read  them  on  that  rainy  afternoon,  they  took  me 
back  to  the  happy  hours  spent  with  Nature.  They  made  me 
exclaim  to  myself  the  words  of  a  song,  "Make  me  a  child 
again,  just  for  to-night!"  I  sometimes  lose — perhaps  you 
have  done  the  same  thing  yourself — what  I  need  most,  in  my 
trunks — put  away  so  carefully  that  they  are  well-nigh  unfindable, 
and  then  have  to  shuffle  through  the  contents  of  the  trunk  in  mad 
haste.  I  had  finally  to  take  everything  out  of  the  bottom  of  the 
trunk  and  make  a  systematic  search  before  the  Maggie  Teyte 
booklet  came  to  light.  I  looked  over  a  high  pile  of  my  literary 
articles,  and  also  came  across  the  book  of  my  poems,  printed  in 

vii 


1899.  It  would  be  hard  to  decide  which  find  in  the  trunk  (the 
French  song  booklet  or  my  poems  and  stories)  delighted  me  more. 
I  send  the  contents  of  this  book  out,  hoping  that  the  poems, 
stories,  etc.  may  afford  a  bit  of  pleasure,  diversion  or  entertain 
ment  in  your  leisure  moments.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to 
"cull  simply  the  best"  for  the  general  reading  public,  but  both 
prose  and  poetry  have  been  left  without  revision  except  very 
slight  changes,  which  a  child  of  those  years  might  naturally  have 
made  for  herself.  The  arrangement  of  this  collection  is  chrono 
logical.  As  for  the  order — the  verse  comes  first,  then  essays, 
anecdotes  and  descriptions,  and  last,  short  stories.  For  associa 
tion's  sake  my  favorite  poems  in  this  collection  are  "The  Lily- 
Pond"  (page  37),  "The  Musician"  (p.  18),  "September"  (p.  39) 
and  "Day  Dreams"  (p.  49).  It  was  not  Daisy  Ashford  who 
inspired  me  to  bring  out  this  book,  as  I  should  have  had  it  pub 
lished,  even  if  "The  Young  Visiters"  had  never  been  written. 

This  collection  consists  of  only  a  few  of  my  many  literary  com 
positions,  written  between  the  ages  of  seven  and  seventeen.  The 
poems,  written  at  seven  and  eight  years  of  age,  were  printed  in 
book  form  in  1899.  Many  of  the  essays  and  descriptions  in  this 
book  appeared  in  the  "  Boston  Sunday  Herald."  Some  of  these 
poems,  etc.,  were  printed  in  "The  New  York  Sunday  Herald," 
"The  York  Transcript"  (York  Harbor,  Maine),  "The  Boston 
Sunday  Herald,"  "The  Brookline  Chronicle,"  "The  North  Shore 
Breeze,"  "The  Junior  League  Bulletin"  (New  York),  and  "The 
Cape  Ann  Shore."  There  is  also  an  unpublished  collection  of 
sixty-six  love  poems.  Permission  has  been  obtained  from  "The 
New  York  Sunday  Herald"  to  reprint  the  following  criticism  and 
poems.  Also  permission  has  been  granted  by  "The  Boston  Sunday 
Herald,"  "The  Brookline  Chronicle,"  "The  North  Shore  Breeze," 
"The  Junior  League  Bulletin"  (New  York),  "The  York  Tran 
script"  (York  Harbor,  Maine),  and  "The  Cape  Ann  Shore"  to 
reprint  the  poems,  etc.,  which  have  appeared  in  these  papers. 


Excerpt  from  "New  York  Sunday  Herald,"  December,  1899. 
A  POET  AT  SEVEN. 

In  dingy  old  Boston  town  lives  Virginia  Wainwright,  a  little 
girl  of  eight.  When  she  was  but  seven  years  old  she  surprised 
her  mother  one  day  by  writing  a  sweet  little  poem;  and  since 
then,  every  little  while,  another  bit  of  verse  has  followed.  Some 
of  them  she  has  set  to  music,  picking  out  the  air  on  the  piano  with 
one  finger.  Virginia  can't  exactly  explain  how  she  came  to 
write  poetry.  A  sweet  fancy  floats  in  her  little  head,  and  some 
how  it  arranges  itself  into  lines  and  verse  and  so  finds  its  way  to 
paper.  When  you  are  but  a  beginner  in  the  art  of  making  verse, 
think  more  about  the  subject  than  its  garb.  When  you  have  be 
come  rich  in  poetic  fancy,  then  it  is  well  to  take  a  pride  in  how 
you  dress  the  children  of  your  imagination.  Virginia  recently 
has  had  the  honor  of  having  her  verses  printed  in  a  little  pamphlet 
for  circulation  among  her  friends,  and  the  following  are  excerpts 
from  it.  The  editor  vouches  for  the  statement  that  not  a  word 
has  been  changed  since  their  author  wrote  them  down. 

Excerpt  from  "The  Brookline  Chronide,"  May,  1920. 

The  following  verses  from  the  pen  of  Virginia  Wainwright 
are  excellent  examples  of  modern  short  poems  and  deemed 
worthy  of  attention  by  readers  of  "The  Chronicle."  Miss  Wain 
wright  shows  considerable  originality  and  great  talent  for  this 
sort  of  writing. 


Virginia  Wainwright, 
Brookline,  Massachusetts. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
Poems 

Spring  13 

Summer  13 

August  13 

November  13 

Before  a  Storm  14 

Rain  in  April  14 

A  Prayer  14 

The  Snowdrop  14 

To  Aunt  Josephine  IS 

To  Uncle  Russell  IS 

To  Uncle  George  IS 

The  Rain  IS 

The  Snowflakes  16 

Easter  Greeting  to  Mamma  16 
The  Jointed  Doll 

The  Musician  18 

The  Ocean  19 

To  the  Pirate  Queen  20 

To  You  21 

From  Him  to  Her  21 

Song  of  the  Rain  22 

To    Hortense  22 

Christmas  Carol  23 

The  First  Christmas  25 

Winter's  Coming  25 

Eventide  26 

To  Spring  26 

On  the  Sea  26 

Early  Morning  26 

Spring  is  Coming  27 

Thoughts  in  Summer  Time  27 

A  September  Scene  28 

The  Close  of  Day  29 

Autumnal  Reminiscences  30 

The  Last  Day  of  Summer  31 

Memories    of   August  32 

To  the  Sea  33 

Before  the  Game  34 

A  Summer  Reverie  36 

The  Lily-Pond  37 

Spring's  Awakening  38 

Love's  Awakening  38 

September  39 
A  Paraphrase  of  a  Part  of  a  Poem 

by  Thomas  Moore  40 

Nature  Changeth  Not  4t 
Easter  Greeting  to  Miss  Bailey          42 

Only  a  Kiss  42 

He  Strives  to  Forget  the  Past  43 

From  Youth  to  Maid  43 

To  His  Lucile  44 

To  His  Valentine  45 

In  an  Automobile  45 

To  His  Rosa  46 

The  Fluttering  Heart  46 


To  York  Harbor 

Farewell 

To  His  Valentine,  Lily 

To  

Day  Dreams 


PAGE 
47 
47 
47 
48 
49 


Anecdotes,   Short   Essays, 

Descriptions,  Etc. 

A  Description  of  Alpine  Scenery  53 

Christmas  at  the  Farmhouse  S3 

A  Perfect  Autumn  Day  55 

A  Rainy  Day  55 

In  a  Gloomy  Mood  56 
The  Pleasantest  Story  I  Read  Last 

Summer  56 

Look  Onward  Toward  Success!  58 

The  Waifs'  Christmas  58 
My  Favorite  Character  in  Fiction  59 
Ten  Minutes  Spent  in  the  Woods  60 

A  Spring  Picture  61 

The  York  River  at  Sunset  62 

The  Rose's  Day  63 

Canoeing  63 

In  "Cleopatra"  64 

My  French  Book  65 

"The  Little  Lame  Prince"  66 

My  Summer  Home  66 
Rowing,  One  of  My  Favorite  Sports  67 

My  Room  in  Summer  68 

The  Churchyard  69 

My  Queerest  Dream  69 

A  Picturesque  Garden  70 

What  My  City  Needs  Most  71 

A  Scene  in  a  Street  Car  71 

A  Dog's  Presence  of  Mind  72 

Dared  the  "Boogie"  73 

When  Sambo  Forgot  74 

A  Pencil  Mania  74 

Bob  and  Bill  75 

A  Red  Necktie  76 

By  Junior  Prize  77 

One  Study  Period  77 
The  Day  I  Lost  My  Balance 

Excerpts  from  My  Diary  79 

Stories 

Gretel's  Christmas  83 

The   Skipper's  Dream  85 

Self-Sacrifice  86 

A  Leaf  from  a  Diary  87 

Youth's  Pleasures  are  Fleeting  90 

His  Expensive  Purchase  93 

When  Eye  Meets  Eye  96 
Jack's  Adventure  at  the  Circus 

Parade  99 

What  the  New  Year  Brought  101 

Paloma  104 


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Poems 


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GLEANINGS  13 


Written  at  seven  and  eight  years  of  age. 


SPRING. 

Little  Springtime,  with  all  your  birds  and  flowers, 
Come  little  Springtime,  give  us  some  showers. 

Little  Springtime,  with  all  your  leaves  so  gay, 
Come  into  the  woods  and  sing  a  merry  lay. 


SUMMER. 

Springtime  has  flown,  and  Summer,  dear  Summer,  is  here. 

Oh,  say,  little  flowers,  say,  do  you  hear? 

When  Springtime  is  flown,  then  Summer  is  here. 

My  dear  little  flowers,  O,  do  not  fear ! 


AUGUST. 

August  is  blooming  with  all  her  leaves, 
This  is  the  time  no  birds  hide  in  eaves; 
Soon  the  bright  colors  will  all  "fade  away, 
Then  all  the  leaves  will  go  astray. 


NOVEMBER. 

Winter  is  coming,  oh !  look  at  the  trees ; 
When  it  is  here,  there  are  no  leaves. 
Then  there  are  no  flowerets  gay; 
When  it  is  coming  they  all  go  away. 


GLEANINGS 


Written  at  seven  and  eight  years  of  age. 


BEFORE  A  STORM. 

Leaves  are  gray  and  skies  are  brown, 
Little  birds'  nests  fall  around. 


RAIN  IN  APRIL. 

Down  come  the  showers, 
Up  come  the  flowers, 
All  the  little  daisies 
Wash  their  little  faces. 


A  PRAYER. 

Do  not  fear, 

God  is  near, 

All  thou  dost, 

He  does  hear, 

He  does  hear  you  pray  at  night, 
And  keeps  you  through  the  morning  light. 


THE  SNOWDROP. 

The  snowdrop  hides  beneath  the  snow, 
And  peeps  out  when  the  winds  do  blow. 
It  hides  its  face  in  the  dark,  dark  night, 
And  comes  out  bright  in  the  morning  light. 


GLEANINGS  15 


Written  at  seven  and  eight  years  of  age. 

To  AUNT  JOSEPHINE. 

My  little  Aunt  so  dear, 
I  love  with  all  my  heart! 
When  I  am  here  without  her, 
I  feel  we're  far  apart. 

To  UNCLE  RUSSELL. 

The  trees  are  shedding  all  their  leaves, 
The  birds  are  hiding  in  the  eaves; 
For  winter  is  beginning  now, 
And  snow  is  falling  fast. 

To  UNCLE  GEORGE  (on  his  birthday). 

I  brought  you  this  flower 
To  remember  the  day. 
I  hope  'twill  not  shower, 
And  so  you'll  be  gay. 

THE  RAIN. 

The  rain  falls  fast, 

And  blows  the  blast, 

The  winds  are  coming  hither; 

The  north  wind  blows 

Its  merry  song, 

And  brings   the   cold,   cold   weather. 


16  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  eight  years  of  age. 

THE  SNOWFLAKES. 

Little  snowflakes  from  the  sky, 
Come  down  and  around  me  fly. 
They  ask  the  Father  from  above 
Whence  they  come  and  why  they  rove. 
They  ask  Him  too  when  'twill  be  fair, 
And  make  the  sweetest,  kindest  air. 
O,  dear  little  flakes ! 
Do  you  come  from  the  lakes 
Of  the  dark  blue  sky  above  ? 


Written  at  eleven  years  of  age. 

EASTER  GREETING  TO  MAMMA. 

An  Easter  Greeting  I  send  to  you, 
Dearest  of  Mothers,  that  is  you, 
Hoping  you're  well  and  bright  and  gay, 
Just  like  pretty,  gladsome  May. 

I  have  no  plant  to  offer  you, 
Nor  even  an  egg  of  robin's  blue, 
But  take  my  love,  and  that  will  do, 
Dearest  of  Mothers,  that  is  you. 


GLEANINGS  17 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  JOINTED  DOLL. 

I'm  only  a  jointed  doll, 
With  arms  and  legs  that  can  move, 
But  I  can  walk  and  tumble  and  roll, 
When  I'm  allowed  to  stroll  and  rove. 

Three  years  I  was  kept  by  a  man, 

In  his  pocket  to  repose, 

I  stayed  there   till  my  color  ran, 

Then  he  took  me  out, — and  what  d'you  s'pose? 

He  gave  me  to  a  little  girl, 

Whose  hair  was  light  and  full  of  curl. 

Gracious!  she  treated  me  badly  too, 

She  dropped  me  till  I  was  black  and  blue. 

I  think  I  should  have  better  treatment  (don't  you?), 

Though  I  am  only  a  jointed  doll. 


18  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  MUSICIAN. 

He  was  not  of  the  earthly  clay, 
His  mother,  Nature,  worked  a  day; 
At  eventide  she  fled  away — 
His  maker. 

'Twas  Music  found  him  swift  and  fleet, 
She  knelt  with  fervor  at  his  feet, 
And  oft  on  Idus  did  she  meet — 
Her  lover. 

They  walked  together  arm  in  arm, 
Communing  mid  the  evening  balm, 
She,  guarding  him  from  earthly  harm — 
His  helper. 


GLEANINGS 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  OCEAN. 

Great  are  the  perils  of  the  ocean, 
And  wondrous  the  depths  of  the  deep. 
Oh,  swift  as  rotating  earth's  motion, 
Great  rivers  into  it  leap. 

Many  and  strong  are  the  ships  on  the  sea, 

But  when  winds  roar  loudly  and  high  waves  dash, 

Not  all  can  brave  thy  storms,  O,  sea! 

When  the  clouds  roll  o'er  in  a  lightning's  flash. 

Then  art  thou  stronger  than  an  hundred  men, 
Thou  batter'st  the  ship  and  sunder'st  the  mast ; 
Into  thee,  more  fierce  than  a  lion's  den, 
The  crew  is  swept,  though  they  all  cling  fast. 

And  some  who  are  out  on  the  raging  sea, 
Being  tossed  about  by  the  angry  wave, 
Think  of  their  homes  by  the  silent  lea, 
And  wonder  the  fate  of  their  parents  brave. 


20  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  thirteen  years  of  age. 

To  THE  PIRATE  QUEEN. 
(Six  boys  and  one  girl  playing  pirates.) 

I'm  out  on  the  ocean  deep, 

I  sail  on  it  far  and  near, 

I  wouldn't  go  to  sleep 

When  the  Pirate  Queen  is  here. 

I  love  her  all  the  day, 

I  love  her  all  the  night, 

I  love  to  hear  them  say; 

"The  Pirate  Queen's  all  right!" 

We're  pirates  six  to  the  mark, 
But  one  dear  Queen  have  we, 
We're  out,  we're  out  in  our  bark, 
We're  out  on  the  deep  blue  sea. 

Hurrah!  there's  none  like  her. 
Hurrah !  for  the  Pirate  Queen. 
Hurrah!  for  the  watery  "fleur." 
She's  ours,  the  Pirate  Queen. 


GLEANINGS  21 


Written  ait  thirteen  years  of  age. 

To  You. 
(Supposedly  from  one  of  the  Pirate  Boys.) 

When  the  air  is  stifling  hot, 
When  the  water's  roar  is  loud, 
When  the  Pirate  Queen's  there  or  not, 
When  the  sky  has  a  dark,  dark  cloud, 
I  think  of  you. 

When  the  breeze  is  blowing  cool, 

When  the  waters  whisper  low, 

When  down  by  a  shady  pool, 

When  the  sky's  bright  with  sunset  glow, 

I  think  of  you. 

Written  at  thirteen  years  of  age. 

FROM  HIM  TO  HER. 

I  love  thee  much, 
My  heart  is  thine, 
I  think  of  thee, 
Wilt  thou  be  mine? 

When  thou  art  far, 
My  thoughts  are  there, 
They're  ever  with 
My  lady  fair. 


22  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 

SONG  OF  THE  RAIN. 

Patter,  patter  comes  the  rain, 
Knocks  against  the  window  pane. 
Patter,  patter  in  the  street, 
Like  so  many  little  feet. 

Patter,  patter,  see  it  pour! 
Down  it  comes  still  more  and  more. 
Patter,  patter,  look !  O,  look ! 
Down  it  comes  in  brook  and  nook. 

Patter,  patter,  welcome  rain, 
Do  you  know  how  much  we  gain? 
Patter,  patter,  buds  will  swell, 
That  is  why  we  love  you  well. 

Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 

To  HORTENSE. 
(From  a  young  boy,  to  an  older  woman.) 

I  love  you,  dear,  with  all  my  heart, 
O,  Hortense!  take  my  longing  part, 
And  be  my  wife  forever  more, 
To  read  me  tales  of  fairy  lore. 

The  fields  are  green,  and  we  did  see 
The  new-born  spring  come  joyfully. 
Now  see  the  summer  trips  along. 
O,  be  my  wife  with  merry  song ! 


GLEANINGS  23 


The  scene  is  now  in  winter  cold, 
When  all  the  trees  are  bare  and  old; 
A  little  babe  is  born  to  you, 
To  give  you  joy  that  n'er  you  knew. 

Think  of  the  future,  cold  and  bare, 
A  threadbare  cloak  so  scant  doth  she  wear 
That  feet  are  cold  and  hands  grow  thin — 
With  many,  lonely,  has  this  been. 

Put  in  your  mind  a  better  thought, 
Of  joys  by  our  marriage  wrought, 
And  see  thy  children  by  thy  knee, 
And  husband  near  to  comfort  thee. 

All  this  will  be,  if  you  will  do 
The  one  sole  thing  I  ask  of  you; 
Just  say,  "I  love  you,  dear,"  then  all 
Will,  just  as  I  have  told,  befall. 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Ring,  ye  bells,  good  news  proclaiming, 
On  this  gladsome  Christmas  morn, 
Telling  of  the  birth  of  Jesus, 
In  a  lowly  stable  born. 

Lay  he  on  a  kingly  bedstead, 

In  a  palace  built  of  gold, 

With  his  servants  round  about  him, 

And  a  fire  to  keep  from  cold? 


24  GLEANINGS 


Nay,  the  Christ  Child  on  a  manger, 
In  a  stable  lowly,  poor, 
Lay  surrounded  by  the  cattle, 
And  his  father  at  the  door. 

On  a  lonely  hillside  watching-, 
Tending  flocks,  sat  shepherds  near, 
When  an  angel  came  from  Heaven, 
'Round  whom  shone  a  bright  light  clear. 

"Fear  not,"  said  the  Godly  messenger, 
"For  good  tidings  do  I  bring ; 
"To  you  in  Bethlehem,  Judea, 
"To  you  tonight  is  born  a  King." 

"Leave  your  flocks  and  all  your  people, 
"Go  to  Christ  your  given  Lord; 
"You  will  find  him  in  a  manger." 
And  back  to  Heaven  the  angel  soared. 

Three  wise  men,  living  in  the  East, 
Saw  a  wondrous  star  that  night, 
And  all  the  other  stars  about  it, 
It  surpassed  in  brilliant  light. 

Gifts  of  myrrh,  and  gold  and  incense, 
These  three  men  to  Christ  did  bring, 
And  their  hearts  were  filled  with  joy 
At  the  sight  of  their  dear  King. 

Let  us  then,  like  shepherds  and  wise  men, 

Not  alone  by  stars  to  roam, 

But  by  faith  also,  led  onward, 

Be  brought  at  last  to  our  Lord's  Home. 


GLEANINGS  25 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 

Far  away  in  the  midnight  clear, 
There  dawned  a  shining  star  so  mild, 
And  people  came  from  far  and  near 
To  bless  a  lovely  heavenly  Child. 

Three  shepherds  sitting  on  the  ground, 
Around  a  slowly  hovering  flock ; 
They,  too,  the  shining  star  had  found, 
And  an  angel  at  their  hearts  did  knock. 

And,  following  that  star  so  mild, 
Their  hearts  as  presents  did  they  bring; 
They  came  to  bless  the  Heavenly  Child, 
And  gave  them  to  their  Lord  and  King. 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


WINTER'S  COMING. 

Cattle  on  the  hillside  grazing, 
Sheep  and  fowl  in  pastures  low, 
When  the  winds  of  autumn  leaving, 
Bring  the  winter's  ice  and  snow. 

Winter,  I  pray  thee,  fly  away, 

Bring  in  the  happy  joyous  May, 

No  more  thy  icy  fing'r  feel, 

Shall  we,  like  the  wintry,  northern  seal. 


26  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


EVENTIDE. 

The  evening  shadows  darken, 
The  day  of  work  is  done, 
No  birds  to  which  to  harken, 
To  nests  they've  flown  each  one. 


To  SPRING. 

The  morning  dawns  with  rosy  light, 
The  birds  are  singing,  fleet  of  wing, 
And  all  around  are  faces  bright, 
The  sun  awakes  and  brings  the  Spring. 


ON  THE  SEA. 

We  are  out  on  the  raging  ocean, 
With  the  foam  dashed  up  at  our  feet, 
And,  rocked  by  the  ship's  reeling  motion, 
I'm  unable  to  keep  my  seat. 


EARLY  MORNING. 
The  sun  is  out,  and  the  birds 
Their  little  wings  unfurl, 
With  joy  that  they  do  live. 
God  doth  their  joy  give. 


GLEANINGS  27 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


SPRING  is  COMING. 

The  winter  now  goeth  fast, 
And  the  cold  winds  shall  not  last; 
Don't  you  hear  a  voice  in  your  ear, 
Telling  you  that  spring  is  near? 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


THOUGHTS  IN  SUMMER  TIME. 

How  weeps  the  tender  willow  by  the  pool ! 
How  croaks  the  lazy  frog  from  out  the  ferns ! 
How  waves  the  slender  grass  in  breezes  cool! 
How  flows  the  languid  river  in  its  turns ! 

The  bridge  of  birch  across  the  shallow  pond. 
The  road  which  leads  through  many  a  leafy  bower. 
The  distant  site  with  marshy  fields  beyond. 
The  river  banks  so  gay  with  blue  sedge-flower. 

What  thoughts  at  all  these  beauties  spring  to  life, 
As  long  I  gaze  upon  that  distant  scene, 
"Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife!" 
What  feelings  as  I  watch  that  landscape  green! 

Would  that  I  might  pour  out  this  heart  so  sore, 

And  think,  my  friend — in  rest  and  quiet  roam! — 

But  no,  this  glimpse  alone  of  peaceful  shore. . 

On  must  man  go,  with  struggling  strife,  toward  Home. 


28  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


A  SEPTEMBER  SCENE. 

Tis  a  day  in  mid  September, 
Indian  Summer  has  begun, 
The  trees  are  bright  in  Autumn  raiment, 
The  water  sparkles  in  the  sun. 

The  birds  from  tree  to  tree  fly  calling. 
The  cows  beside  the  babbling  brook, 
The  violets  in  the  swamps  and  marshes, 
Give  to  Fall  a  summer  look. 

Along  the  rippling,  sparkling  river, 
Drifting  comes  a  green  canoe, 
Only  two  are  in  its  hollow; 
In  it  is  but  room  for  two. 

In  the  bottom  sits  a  maiden, 
Fair  and  sweet  to  look  upon; 
In  the  stern  is  her  admirer, 
Paddling  ever  and  anon. 

Youthful  innocence,  pride  and  joy, 
Beam  in  her  sweet  downcast  eyes, 
While  her  wealth  of  hair  unbound, 
Soft  and  light  around  her  lies. 

The  youth  is  tall,  and  straight  and  manly, 
Love  and  knowledge  from  his  eyes  shine, 
His  face  is  handsome,  kind  and  gentle, 
His  features  clearly  cut  and  fine. 


GLEANINGS  29 


Dark  his  brow,  and  stern  his  feature, 
When  sorrow  causes  pain  and  care; 
But  now  a  smile  serene  and  loving 
Is  seen,  as  he  gazes  at  the  maiden  fair. 

Thus  through  life's  dark  perilous  journey 
Shall  they  drift,  he  protecting  e'er, 
Ever  a  smile  shall  shine  through  sorrow, 
When  he  is  with  the  maiden  fair. 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  DAY. 

The  sultry  August  day  at  eve  is  o'er, 

The  shadows  lengthen.    'Long  the  dusty  road 

The  sheep  come  homeward  driven.     Now  once  more 

The  church-bells  ring.     I  walk  toward  my  abode. 

Along  the  landscape  stand  the  trees  of  pine, 
Outlined  as  travelers  'long  the  road  of  fate, 
The  twilight  darkens.    See  the  horizon-line 
Is  reddened  by  the  setting  sun  so  late. 

As  homeward  'long  the  dusty  lane  I  wend 

My  way,  a  feeling  comes  into  my  heart, 

The  hour,  the  place,  my  heart-strings  seem  to  rend. 

O,  why!     O,  why!  my  friend,  did  we  e'er  part? 


30  GLEANINGS 


The  glorious  sun  is  sinking  'neath  the  trees, 
The  sunset  glow's  suffused  across  the  sky, 
The  sultry  air's  refreshed  by  evening  breeze. 
Another  day  has  passed,  and  night  is  nigh. 

The  lane  is  reached,  that  leads  unto  the  house, 
That  lane  made  sacred,  trodden  by  thy  feet ; 
As  up  the  steep  hill,  feelings  in  me  rouse 
The  thought  it  was  last  here  that  we  did  meet. 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


AUTUMNAL  REMINISCENCES. 

Far,  far  across  the  lonely  marshes, 
Wails  and  moans  the  autumn  wind, 
Down  the  steep  nocturnal  pathway 
Comes  dark  Sleep,  with  tread  so  kind. 

Why,  O,  why!  these  visions  dreary? 
Why  these  sighs  and  wailing  verses? 
Whence  the  thoughts  that  haunt  the  memory, 
Where  the  Past  its  scene  rehearses? 

Speak,  O,  speak !  ye  thoughts  that  slumber, 
Hidden  deep  within  the  breast. 
Wake,  O,  wake!  and  leave  thy  dreaming; 
Wake,  awake  from  silent  rest. 


GLEANINGS  31 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


THE  LAST  DAY  OF  SUMMER. 

I  stood  upon  the  beach  so  lonely, 

None  were  there  save  Nature  and  I. 

The  wind  of  autumn  blew  cold  and  chilly. 

The  waves  dashed.    Above  was  the  blue,  blue  sky. 

Before  me  lay  the  mighty  ocean, 
White  caps  skipped  its  surface  o'er, 
Little  sail  boats,  skiffs  and  dories, 
Being  tossed  by  the  restless  waves,  I  saw. 

What  is  there  in  the  deep  blue  ocean 
That  calls  us  e'er  unto  its  breast, 
To  cast  our  grief  and  woe  to  seaward, 
To  come  into  its  arms  and  rest? 

My  heart  that  day  was  sad  and  restless, 
My  thoughts  were  distant  many  a  mile, 
I  came  unto  the  wondrous  ocean, 
Seeking  one  gone,  as  Cleopatra  of  the  Nile. 

But  unlike  that  mighty  sorceress, 
I  knew  my  Antony  could  not  come; 
No  news  from  him  a  black  slave  bringing, 
Could  tell  me  he  was  safe  at  Rome. 

Though  my  thoughts  were  with  my  loved  one, 
Could  they  bring  him  unto  me? 
The  sea  rolls  onward — homeward  turning, 
I  sighed,  "Alas!  It  cannot  be." 


32  GLEANINGS 

Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 

MEMORIES  OF  AUGUST. 

(Verses  written  while  looking  at  a  picture  of 
sail-boats.) 

How  this  picture  here  before  me 
Takes  me  back  to  summer  time, 
Time  when  all  are  gay  and  happy, 
Time  of  laughter,  and  of  rhyme. 

See  the  water  gleam  and  sparkle, 
See  the  sunshine  flooding  all, 
See  the  sail-boats  skimming  blithely ; 
Is  it  August  or  in  fall? 

August,  August,  time  of  pleasure, 
Of  sailing,  paddling,  then  at  York. 
I  think  again  I  see  thee,  river, 
See  thee,  watch  thee,  hear  thee  talk. 

Perhaps  no  more  shall  merry  August 
Bring  such  happiness  to  me, 
Who  knows  that  fate  may,  intervening, 
Part,  e'er  sever,  me  and  thee. 

Sail-boats,  sail-boats,  lightly  sailing, 

Why  is  it  that  thou  hauntest  me 

With  thoughts  of  hours  spent  on  that  river, 

That  perchance  in  future  may  not  be? 

August,  seashore,  how  I  love  thee, 
How  I  wish  'twere  summer-time, 
August,  August,  time  for  pleasure, 
Time  for  happiness  and  rhyme. 


GLEANINGS  33 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


To  THE  SEA. 

Break,  o,  sea!  break, 

On  the  cold,  bleak  shore  of  Maine. 

Winter,  winter's  here. 

Come  not  snow  and  rain! 

The  winter's  tardy  sun 
Has  risen  hours  before, 
But  still  its  scanty  rays 
Heat  not  the  cold  York  shore. 

Oh!  would  that  I  were  there, 
To  see  the  high  waves  break, 
The  foam  scatter  and  dash, 
The  white  caps  in  thy  wake. 

O,  ocean!  roll  and  roll! 

O,  waves!  e'er  roar  and  roar! 

I  think  of  thee  forever, 

As  I  stand  on  the  cold  bleak  shore. 

I  think  of  the  days  in  summer, 
When  the  waters  of  ocean  pause, 
If  ever  that  mighty  body 
Quiets  its  dashes  and  roars. 

Then  the  sun  on  the  sparkling  water, 
Shone  with  its  heating  rays, 
'Twas  August,  August  then, 
Happiest,  merriest  days. 


34  GLEANINGS 


When  the  storms  in  winter  rage, 
When  the  thunder  shakes  the  earth, 
When  the  waves  dash  high  on  the  rocks, 
When  the  sea-gulls  shout  with  mirth; 

Then  my  thoughts  go  back 
To  the  time,  the  time  now  o'er, 
The  happy  summers  spent 
With  thee  on  the  fair  York  shore. 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


BEFORE  THE  GAME. 

(A  Harvard  and  Yale  Football  Game  in  the  Cambridge 
Stadium.) 

The  day  is  warm,  the  weather  fine, 
Although  November's  sun  its  ray 
Casts  upon  the  peaceful  earth, 
To-day  the  hostile  teams   will  play. 

From  far  and  near  the  people  flock 
To  see  the  Crimson — Bull-Dog  strife. 
To-day,  to-day  the  game  is  fought 
For  which  shall  victory  be  and  life? 

For  one  the  gloomy  death  awaits, 
Both  cannot  win,  though  both  may  strive, 
Which  shall  the  fiery  master  be? 
For  which  is  death?    Which  is  alive? 


GLEANINGS 


The  massive  Stadium  lifts  its  face, 
One  mass  of  banners  red  and  blue, 
The  band  rings  out  in  brazen  voice 
Airs  of  Crimson,  songs  of  Blue. 

"Fair  Harvard,"  How  those  words  re-echo, 

How  that  tune  is  carried  far, 

To  many  lands,  and  many  nations 

"Fair  Harvard" 's  wafted.     'Rah!  'rah!  'rah! 

On  the  gridiron  come  the  elevens, 
"Harvard,  Harvard!"  comes  the  cry. 
"Harvard,  Harvard,  play  your  strongest, 
"Win  for  Crimson,  win  or  die!" 

From  the  Bull-Dog  side  comes  cheering, 
Cheer  on  cheer  soon  fills  the  air. 
"Balaboo!  Eli  can  beat  them! 
"Victory,  victory!  hold  them  there." 

"Harvard,  Harvard !"  shout  the  coaches. 
"Harvard  ever!"  roars  the  team. 
And  the  name  of  Harvard  ephoes 
From  mouth  to  mouth,  and  faces  beam. 

The  banners  wave,  the  streamers  fly, 
The  coin  flashes  in  the  sun. 
'Tis  Harvard's  choice.    O,  Harvard !  win. 
The  ball  is  kicked,  the  game's  begun. 


36  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


A  SUMMER  REVERIE. 

Once  more  'tis  summer,  and  once  more  I  feel 
As  though  amid  those  pine-trees  tall  I  stood, 
And  heard  the  gentle  whispering  of  the  wind 
Among  the  branches  of  the  sweet  pine-wood. 

My  heart  was  heavy,  feverish  was  my  soul, 
And  all  around  me  seemed  to  breathe  one  name. 
My  heart  throbbed.    Every  tiny  blade  and  tree, 
Flower  and  leaf,  they  whispered  all  the  same. 

I  left  the  wood,  I  sought  the  open  sea, 

"To  sea,  to  sea!"  my  heart  and  feelings  cried. 

Amid  the  trees  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  blue, 

To  reach  the  shore  my  whole  heart  feelings  tried. 

I  see  once  more  those  ancient  willows  weeping, 
Beside  the  roaring  sea  by  Godfrey's  Cove. 
I  stood  and  thought  of  thee,  dear,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Still  weep  the  willows,  weep  beside  the  Cove. 


GLEANINGS  37 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


THE  LILY-POND. 

The  languid  August  afternoon  drags  on. 
'Tis  warm,  but  as  one  nears  the  lily-pool, 
The  breeze  upon  one's  face  e'er  gently  blows ; 
The  lazy  frog  croaks  on.    'Tis  still  and  cool. 

How  peaceful  'long  the  shaded  pine-tree  road, 
How  fragrant  are  the  flowers  along  the  way; 
How  dark  and  quiet  beside  the  stagnant  pond, 
Save  for  the  sleepy  frog  and  turtle  grey. 

The  sun's  rays  filtering  through  o'erhanging  trees, 
Shine  here  and  there  upon  the  waters  brown. 
Reflections  of  the  quivering  birches  white 
Are  on  the  surface,  where  their  heads  bow  down. 

The  lily-pads  are  scattered  o'er  the  pond, 
With  here  and  there  a  beauteous  lily  white, 
That  hides  its  head  among  the  dark  green  leaves, 
And  in  its  chalice  catches  sunbeams  bright. 

This  pine-wood  path,  my  friend,  hast  thou  oft  trod, 
With  footsteps  weary,  gay,  and  sad,  and  light. 
Oh !  fain  that  Seabury  days  were  back  again, 
Oh!  would  those  hours  had  not  so  swift  ta'en  flight. 


38  GLEANINGS 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

SPRING'S  AWAKENING. 

What  meaneth  this  mystic  sadness, 
That  spreadeth  o'er  the  mind, 
And  tells  us  Spring's  awakening, 
Like  music  on  the  wind? 

What  is  this  magic  longing? 
What  makes  us  sad  in  Spring? 
The  charm  is  not  terrestrial, 
That  maketh  woodlands  sing. 

The  power  is  in  the  ocean, 
Each  billow  breaks  in  rhyme, 
Each  songbird's  throat  is  bursting 
With  melody  sublime. 

Ah !  leave  this  fleeting  moment, 
Think  on  the  power  of  God ! 
Each  bird,  each  insect  feels  it, 
Each  flower,  each  leaf,  each  sod. 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

LOVE'S  AWAKENING. 

What  meaneth  this  mystic  sadness, 
That  stretcheth  for  the  soul 
Its  path  of  melancholy, 
With  sorrow  for  its  goal  ? 

What  is  this  magic  longing? 
Whence  cometh  power  of  love? 
The  charm  is  not  terrestrial, 
But  cometh  from  above. 


GLEANINGS  39 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


SEPTEMBER. 

Autumn's  hues  are  reddening,  deepening, 
Skies  are  blue,  but  chill  the  wind. 
Summer's  ended.    Yon  the  sun  sets 
Purple,  orange,  bleak,  unkind. 

Far  across  the  meadows  lonely 
Sway  the  grasses  lithe  and  long, 
Far  the  gulls  fly  screaming,  calling, 
Frogs  commence  their  nightly  song. 

The  sea  still  breaks  with  sounding  music, 
High  dash  the  waves  on  rock  and  shore, 
The  evening  colors  fade,  and  slowly 
Sets  the  bright  sun. — Light  no  more. 

Now  'tis  dark,  the  shadows  deepen, 
High  above  the  resounding  sea, 
The  full  moon  rises,  bright  and  golden, 
The  harvest  moon  o'er  wave  and  lea. 


40  GLEANINGS 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

A  PARAPHRASE  OF  A  PART  OF  A  POEM  BY  THOMAS  MOORE. 

Was  it  the  lark,  or  was  it  daybreak's  call, 

That  bid  thee,  dearest,  leave  these  arms,  leave  all? 

I  lingered  yet,  though  thou  had'st  gone  away, 

In  murmuring  rest  of  soul  till  morning's  ray. 

Thy  parting  sigh  hung  faintly  on  my  breath, 

Thy  name  in  whispers  o'er  my  tongue  met  death, 

I  heard  thy  'cello,  left  by  thee  behind, 

In  converse  with  the  breezes,  blowing  kind ; 

Fast  to  my  heart  I  pressed  the  fatal  flower, 

And  with  the  lips,  warm,  brought  from  Cupid's  bower, 

Straight  I  kissed  each  petal  with  delight, 

Which  flower  had  gained  favor  in  thy  sight ; 

I  touched  thy  lyre,  shed  o'er  each  chord  a  kiss, 
Which  told  such  songs,  such  notes  of  fervent  bliss, 
As  none  but  consonances  sweet,  that  felt 
The  dew  of  kisses,  dear  as  ours,  have  dealt. 
O,  love !  how  happy  is  the  soothing  rest, 
That  follows  close  upon  such  raptures  blest, 
Like  a  cool  twilight  shed  upon  the  mind, 
The  traces  of  a  transport  left  behind. 

Thou  know'st,  loved  one,  our  clouded  skies  beyond, 
The  spirit's  kingdom  lies,  without  a  bond, 
A  sea  of  ether  rolls  through  that  fair  clime, 
Where  hallowed  souls,  in  islands  bright  with  thyme, 
Garnished  and  blest,  worn  by  life's  toilsome  race, 
Recumbent,  rest  in  love's  most  fond  embrace. 


GLEANINGS  41 


The  solitary  orb  so  soft,  so  sweet, 

That  guides  thee  often  our  two  hearts  to  meet, 

Is  no  pale  planet,  but  an  island  blest, 

Floating  upon  those  seas  of  love  and  rest! 

I  thought  we  two  our  way  up  yonder  winged, 

While  day's  clear  light  streamed,  and  brooklets  ringed, 

And  all  around  on  lily  beds  of  love, 

Beyond  the  Blessed  Spirits  sent  above. 

And  there  once  more  some  girlish  friends  I  met, 

Whom  I  had  loved,  whom  tears  of  joy  had  wet. 

O,  Sage  of  Samia !  whate'er  thy  thought  may  be 
Of  numbers  mystic,  wrought  alone  to  see, 
The  One  formed  from  the  Two,  who  love  most  dear, 
Is  Heaven's  best  number,  the  best  upon  Earth  here. 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


NATURE  CHANGETH  NOT. 

The  mighty  ocean  rolls  e'er  on  its  way, 
The  birds  still  sing,  the  flowers  bloom  and  fade, 
Meadows  are  white,  then  sweet  with  new  mown  hay, 
But  he's  unkind ;  yet  man  by  God  was  made. 

The  hills  still  rise,  and  praise  their  Heavenly  Giver, 
Valleys  are  fresh  and  green.    The  sportive  deer 
And  roe  still  bound,  then  rest  beside  the  river. 
The  sun  shines  on ;  but  he  is  insincere. 


42  GLEANINGS 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

EASTER  GREETING  TO  Miss  BAILEY. 

An  Easter  greeting  we  send  to  you, 
Dear  Miss  Bailey,  our  friend  so  true. 
May  many  joys  His  hand  bestow 
Upon  your  head,  and  ne'er  a  woe 
To  mar  the  days  of  early  Spring, 
That  birds  and  blossoms  to  you  bring. 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

ONLY  A  Kiss. 

They  stop,  they  linger  a  moment, 
Beneath  the  forest  trees; 
Sweetly  he  kisses  her  forehead, 
Swiftly  that  moment  flees. 

One  feels  the  power  of  living, 
His  first  kiss  come  and  gone, 
For  once  in  Life's  weary  toil, 
One  is  glad  that  one  was  born. 

But  stay,  it  was  not  in  the  forest, 
'Twas  only  a  sofa  green, 
'Twas  only  a  kiss  he  gave  her, 
But  much  did  that  first  kiss  mean. 

Ah !  woe  that  'twas  ever  given, 
Its  cause  was  true  love  and  joy; 
But  many  a  pang  has  it  brought 
To  her  from  a  debonair  boy. 


GLEANINGS  43 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

HE  STRIVES  TO  FORGET  THE  PAST. 

Could'st  thou  not  -then  my  pains  defy? 
Why  bleeds  a  heart  for  what  is  past? 
Let  the  dead  past  its  dead  inter 
And  leave  me  lonely  till  the  last. 

Wake  from  thy  sleep,  O,  slumbrous  one! 
Why  dost  thou  sleep  when  morn  is  here? 
Live  in  the  present,  live  and  strive 
To  be,  to  do !    Thy  goal  is  near. 

Leave  the  poor  heart  you  once  ensnared. 
Why  bleeds  a  heart  for  what  is  past? 
Let  the  dead  past  its  dead  inter, 
And  leave  me  lonely  till  the  last. 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

FROM  YOUTH  TO  MAID. 
(/«  a  Pensive  Mood.) 

Why  does  my  heart  e'er  pain  me  so? 
Gone  is  true  gladness,  indifference,  joy. 
Love  at  my  heart-strings  tugs  and  pulls. 
All  this  comes  to  me,  a  careless  boy. 

Love,  ah !  first  love  is  hard  to  bear, 
But  slighted  love  is  harder  still ; 
Why  does  a  heart  persist  to  care 
For  her,  who  broke  it  with  iron  will  ? 


44  GLEANINGS 


Why  does  she  then  inflict  these  pains? 
Why  is  she  worth  these  thoughts,  this  woe? 
She  cannot  love,  she  has  no  heart, 
She  cannot  feel,  she  cannot  know. 

Too  much  I've  done  for  this  loved  one, 
Too  often  thought,  too  often  cared. 
They  say  that  love  and  death  are  sweet ; 
Oh !  would  that  my  poor  heart  were  spared. 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


To  His  LUCILE. 

Dear  Lucile,  my  friend,  I  am  lonely, 
Lonely  and  longing  for  thee; 
The  days  and  the  hours  seem  longer 
Than  those  which  you  spent  with  me. 

Why  do  the  fields  seem  so  empty  ? 
Why  do  the  birds  sing  no  more? 
Ah!  why  does  the  sea  roll  in  discords? 
Why  is  my  heart  sad  and  sore  ? 

Come  back  to  your  friend,  who  is  waiting, 
Perhaps  he  will  not  wait  fore'er; 
He  might  find  another  and  truer, 
But  never  for  other  he'd  care. 


GLEANINGS  45 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


To  His  VALENTINE. 

Good  luck  to  you,  who  never  knew, 

How  I  have  suffered  night  and  day, 

With  pangs  of  love,  Devotion's  slave, 

And  ne'er  shall  know  how  oft  I  say: 

"Lucile,  Lucile,  I  think  of  thee, 

"You  never,  dear,  have  left  my  mind, 

"I  might  try  and  try  the  whole  world  o'er, 

"But  ne'er  your  equal  could  I  find." 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


IN  AN  AUTOMOBILE. 

What  joy  to  speed  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
What  bliss  to  be  alone  with  thee, 
My  heart  is  light  with  joy  undreamed, 
Away,  afar,  away  we  flee. 

The  auto  runs  so  smooth,  so  fast, 
So  fleet  we  speed  on  country  road ! 
My  heart  is  light,  my  joy  supreme, 
There's  lifted  from  my  soul  a  load. 


46  GLEANINGS 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

To  His  ROSA. 

Why  does  my  heart  with  passion  burn? 
Why  does  my  grief  to  joy  turn? 
Perchance  may  I  the  reason  learn, 
Perchance  might  I  the  affection  earn — 
Of  Rosa. 

With  whom  did  I  drift  in  a  green  canoe? 
Who  was  it  spoke  of  "room  for  two"? 
Who  forced  my  soul  to  leap,  O,  who? 
To  whom  is  my  heart  forever  true? 
To  Rosa. 

Whose  sweet  soft  whisper  do  I  hear, 
That  falls  with  rapture  on  my  ear? 
Who  is  the  girl,  when  far  or  near, 
Whose  name  to  me  is  very  dear? 
Tis  Rosa. 

O,  handsome  girl !  with  merry  eye, 
How  dost  thou  make  all  sorrows  fly? 
Who  maketh  flee  each  pang,  each  sigh  ? 
Who  is  the  friend  I'll  e'er  stand  by? 
'Tis  Rosa. 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

THE  FLUTTERING  HEART. 

My  heart  in  its  prison  bars 
Flutters,  a  flight  to  take, 
Its  cry  is  from  near  and  far, 
"Awake,  awake,  awake!" 


GLEANINGS  47 


Fly  to  thy  own  true  love,  red  heart, 

He's  waiting  ever  nigh. 

Come!  fly  away  like  the  white,  white  dove, 

Away  to  the  blue,  blue  sky. 

Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 

To  YORK  HARBOR. 

My  dearest  York  is  a  place 
Where  there  is  many  a  face 
That  I  dearly,  dearly  love ; 
I  really  do. 

And  there  are  many  there; 
To  have  naught  to  do  is  rare, 
Oh!  hip!  hip!  hurrah! 
My  dearest  York. 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

FAREWELL. 

If  hate  you  feel  toward  me,  then  be  it  so, 

To  others  then  go  give  your  soul  and  heart. 

Let  not  your  friends  know  of  my  grief  and  woe. 

Be  loved  by  them.    Farewell  then,  we  must  part. 

Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 

To  His  VALENTINE,  LILY. 

O,  fairest!  how  my  heart  doth  pine, 
For  Lily !    Say,  dear,  thou  art  mine, 
O,  say,  dear  one!  "I'm  thine,  I'm  thine." 
Then  Lily,  be  my  valentine. 


48  GLEANINGS 


I  know  full  well  I  should  not  send 
To  you  this  missive  of  my  love, 
But  Cupid  will  his  wings  e'er  lend, 
Bear  this  to  thee,  swift  as  a  dove. 

For  truly  Cupid's  pricked  my  heart, 
With  arrows  known  full  well  to  me ; 
Thou  know'st  not  that  whene'er  we  part, 
My  thoughts,  my  thoughts,  but  run  on  thee. 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


To 


My  heart  all  night  with  grief  was  torn, 
I  could  not  sleep  till  early  morn. 
Since  all  is  o'er,  why  graspest  thou 
That  hand  with  fervour,  hated  now? 

I  tried  to  be  your  honest  friend, 

When  love,  you  said,  made  your  heart  rend. 

I  did  what  in  my  power  lay, 

To  ease  your  heart,  to  make  you  gay. 

Why  art  thou  morbid,  sullen,  base, 
To  eyes  that  cherished  thy  dear  face  ? 
Speak  not  to  me  in  accents  low, 
If  thou  wilt  have  it,  be  it  so! 

What  scrapes,  pray,  have  I  on  thee  brought? 
My  love  could  not  have  injury  wrought. 
Why  chide  one,  faultless,  for  a  blame, 
To  have  hers  coupled  with  thy  name? 


GLEANINGS  49 


Too  dear,  you  think,  that  love  was  bought, 
You  knew  not  then  how  much  you  sought, 
You  loved  her,  could  not  live  an  hour, 
Without  messages  from  Cupid's  bower. 

How  fair  a  rival  have  I  now? 
Sweet  Psyche's  hair  and  noble  brow 
Shall  earn  love-sighs  which  gently  sent, 
I  often  heard  with  ears  intent. 

Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 

DAY  DREAMS. 

'Tis  close  of  day,  the  sun  with  glory  sets, 

And  purple  all  the  distant  landscape  frets. 

The  breeze  of  evening  coolly,  gently  blows, 

With  fleeting  flight  the  fluid  river  flows. 

Night's  heralds,  shepherds,  herdsmen,  trumpets  sound, 

The  silent  songsters  sleep  secure  around. 

The  hour,  the  place,  earth's  many  cares  dispel, 

And  rouse  the  thoughts  on  which  our  memories  dwell. 

We  hope,  we  stretch  our  pinioned  wings  above, 

To  soar  to  higher  levels  that  we  love, 

And  leave  the  common  narrow  world  below, 

To  float  aloft  in  our  own  heaven's  glow. 

The  battlements  and  towers  majestic  rise, 

And  robed  in  splendour,  touch  the  sun-set  skies. 

What  castles,  oh !  what  castles  do  we  build ! 

What  futures  we  unfold,  with  gladness  filled! 

In  vain  we  long  and  hope,  in  vain  we  strive, 

The  twilight  deepens,  and  dark  shades  arrive. 

Night's  darkness  reigns,  the  tottering  castles  gleam ; 

'Twas  but  a  hope,  a  wish,  an  idle  dream. 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiir 

Anecdotes,  Short  Essays, 
Descriptions,  Etc. 

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 


GLEANINGS  53 


Written  at  eleven  years  of  age. 


A  DESCRIPTION  OF  ALPINE  SCENERY. 

As  I  look  out  of  the  window  of  a  little  mountain  cottage  I  see 
the  snow-capped  mountains  in  the  distance.  In  front  of  the 
cottage  is  a  little  pool  of  water,  where  the  cows  wade  knee-deep 
in  the  summer.  It  is  now  frozen  over  with  a  thick  layer  of  ice. 
All  around  at  the  left  and  right  the  ground  is  covered  with 
glistening  snow.  As  I  stand,  looking  out  of  the  window,  the 
sky  is  illuminated  by  a  gorgeous  sunset.  Pink  and  purple  around 
it,  the  brilliant  golden  sun  sinks  to  rest,  after  its  day's  work. 


Written  at  eleven  years  of  age. 


CHRISTMAS  AT  THE  FARMHOUSE. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  little  gray  farmhouse  as  a  man 
hurried  up  the  pathway.  It  was  very  cold  and  he  shivered  as 
he  pulled  his  scanty  cloak  tighter  around  him.  He  saw  before 
him  his  old  home,  where  his  happy  childhood  had  been  spent 
The  little  house,  with  its  sloping  roof  and  the  old  fashioned  chim 
ney,  out  of  which  curled  a  wreath  of  smoke,  seemed  to  beckon  to 
him  to  come  and  rest  inside  its  walls.  On  one  side  of  the  house 
was  the  barn,  where  he  used  to  have  so  much  fun  romping  and 
playing  circus  in  the  sweet-smelling  hay  of  the  lofts.  On  the  other 
side  was  a  weeping-willow,  whose  branches  rocked  and  swayed  in 
the  wind.  The  place  was  very  different  now  from  what  it  was  in 
summer.  No  beautiful  climbing  roses,  surrounding  the  old- 
fashioned  door,  sent  out  their  delicious  perfumes.  No  hens  nor 


54  GLEANINGS 


chickens  ran  hither  and  thither,  clucking,  and  looking  for  worms. 
The  sun's  rays  were  reflected  on  the  window  panes  and  glistened 
on  the  snow-covered  ground.  The  man  came  up  to  the  house, 
and,  after  stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet,  he  opened  the  door 
and  entered.  Through  the  hall  he  went,  until  he  came  to  the 
room,  which  served  both  as  dining-room  and  sitting-room.  He 
stopped  on  the  threshold  to  enjoy  the  scene  before  him.  The 
low-ceilinged  room  looked  very  cozy  and  inviting  after  the  cold 
outside.  In  the  open  fire-place  burned  a  low  fire,  whose  rays 
flickering  on  the  wall  formed  many  odd,  fantastical  shapes. 
Around  the  hearth  the  family  was  gathered.  On  one  side  sat  his 
aged  mother,  gray  and  decrepit,  knitting  some  stockings  with 
those  dear  hands  that  never  ceased  doing  good,  while  on  the 
other  side  his  father  was  seated,  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
hands,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  fire.  Three  children  with  eager  faces, 
anxiously  awaiting  the  tree  their  mother  and  father  were  prepar 
ing  for  them  in  the  kitchen,  sat  on  a  rug  before  the  hearth. 

At  the  sight  of  the  long  absent  member  of  the  family  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  kissing  and  rejoicing  that  he  was  home  again. 
They  had  expected  him  for  many  years,  but,  each  Christmas  when 
he  did  not  come,  they  felt  that  their  waiting  was  all  in  vain.  The 
man  sat  down  and  told  his  adventures  of  the  past  years.  Then 
they  went  into  the  warm  kitchen,  where  they  had  a  beautiful 
Christmas  tree  and  everyone  was  happy.  After  the  man  had  gone 
to  bed,  he  thought  of  all  the  Christmases  he  had  spent  away  from 
home,  and  the  contrast  of  Christmas  in  the  bustling,  crowding 
city  and  the  peaceful  serene  Christmas  at  the  little  gray  farm 
house  in  the  country. 


GLEANINGS  55 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


A  PERFECT  AUTUMN  DAY. 

What  a  perfect  day!  The  air  is  warm,  yet  with  a  feeling  of 
autumn  crispness.  Each  breath  of  wind,  swaying  the  trees,  shakes 
down  a  few  more  brown  leaves.  At  each  step  we  crumple  those 
leaves  that  but  a  few  weeks  previous  were  golden,  red  and  purple. 
The  trees  are  shedding  their  garments  to  prepare  for  the  winter's 
sleep.  The  sparkling  water  is  the  reflection  of  Heaven's  smiles 
to  gladden  the  sinful  earth.  Underneath  the  dead  leaves  lie  hid 
den  chestnuts,  forgotten  or  unknown.  The  trees,  now  almost 
bare,  shake  in  the  wind  as  if  sighing  for  their  green  leaves,  that 
come  only  after  patient  wintry  waiting.  Then  how  glad  they  will 
be  of  their  spring  raiments  of  green.  The  grass  is  turning  brown. 
The  little  ant  is  putting  in  his  winter  store,  and  the  few  birds, 
that  have  not  yet  migrated  to  the  south,  sing  from  the  almost 
bare  tree-tops.  The  crows'  caws  often  grate  on  the  ear  as  they 
fly  southward  over  the  tree-tops.  Winter  will  soon  be  with  us. 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


A  RAINY  DAY. 

The  rain  is  coming  down  in  torrents.  It  patters  on  the  street 
and  the  roof  like  little  feet.  It  comes  against  the  windows  and 
runs  down  in  little  streamlets.  It  falls  on  the  dusty  grass,  and 
refreshes  it.  The  flowers  hold  up  their  tiny  heads  and  receive 
water  in  their  little  cups.  The  rain  falls  on  the  trees,  and  the 
raindrops  look  like  drops  of  dew  on  a  spider's  web. 


56  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


IN  A  GLOOMY  MOOD. 

As  I  look  back  upon  the  pine-tree  of  my  life,  only  a  few  of  its 
many  branches  stand  forth  in  my  mind,  sway  gently,  and  whis 
pering  sweet  music  are  lulled  back  and  forth  by  the  summery 

wind  and  breeze  of  happiness  and  joy. All  the  rest,  dark, 

grim  and  foreboding,  rock  and  bend  under  the  wintry  blast,  that 
chill,  cold  wind  of  sadness  and  despair.  .Take  heart ;  even  the  ant 
has  its  lot  (though  lowly).  Look  on  the  earth  with  all  its  beauties 
given  to  man.  Be  not  sad  and  morbid. 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  PLEASANTEST  STORY  I  READ  LAST  SUMMER. 

"The  Story  of  King  Arthur  aad  His  Knights,"  by  Howard 
Pyle,  will  ever  remain  as  a  fresh  green  spot  in  my  memory  when 
all  other  books  shall  have  faded.  Each  month  when  the  maga 
zine,  in  which  it  came  out  in  serial  form,  arrived,  I  hastily  tore 
off  the  wrapper,  and  turned  to  the  pleasan-test  story  I  read  last 
summer.  I  was  fascinated  by  the  old  English,  and  almost  held  my 
breath  with  delight  as  I  read  of  the  exciting  events  of  King 
Arthur's  boyhood,  knighthood,  and  kinghood.  The  story  also 
tells  of  the  numerous  adventures  that  befell  the  knights  of  his 
Round-Table. 

The  story  which  I  liked  most  was  about  Sir  Percival.  Percival, 
when  a  boy,  was  kept  with  his  mother  in  a  dark,  dreary  tower,  in 
a  gloomy  forest,  by  his  father,  who  was  full  of  fear  lest  his  wife 


GLEANINGS  57 


and  son  be  killed  by  his  enemies.  Percival  knew  nothing  of  fight 
ing,  of  damsels,  or  of  love,  neither  had  he  ever  seen  any  human 
beings,  except  his  mother  and  servants ;  nor  did  his  mother  wish 
him  to,  for  she  was  afraid  he  would  go  out  into  the  wide,  wide 
world,  and  leave  her  far  behind.  Once,  however,  Percival  saw 
some  knights  in  armor,  and,  running  to  his  mother,  he  asked  her 
what  they  were.  After  many  questions,  she  could  hold  it  from 
him  no  longer,  and  told  him  of  the  great  world,  and  all  its  good 
and  evil.  Percival,  with  his  mother's  consent,  went  out  into  the 
forest,  and,  after  cutting  some  osier  twigs,  tried  to  imitate  the 
armor,  which  he  had  seen  on  the  knights.  He  then  put  it  on,  and, 
after  taking  leave  of  his  mother,  went  out  into  the  world. 
Through  the  forest  he  went,  over  streams  he  crossed,  till  at  length 
he  reached  an  open  field,  where  he  perceived  a  pavilion  of  bril 
liant  colors.  He  entered  therein,  and  beheld  before  him  the  most 
beautiful  damsel  mortal  eyes  have  ever  seen.  Percival  fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  wished  to  ask  her  hand  in  marriage,  but  did  not 
think  he  was  worthy  of  her  yet,  so  he  told  the  damsel  he  would 
go  out  and  fight  twenty-two  battles,  and  then  would  come  back 
and  wed  her.  Percival  went  away  from  his  love  after  she  had 
given  him  a  ring.  After  many  wounds  and  much  pain  and  labor, 
Percival  at  last  accomplished  his  victories  in  the  space  of  two 
years.  He  went  to  the  castle,  where  the  damsel  abode,  and,  enter 
ing  the  huge  hall,  stood  before  her  father.  Percival  asked  for  his 
love's  hand  in  marriage,  and  her  father  led  him  to  the  top  of  the 
tower,  and  opened  a  door.  On  a  couch  lay  his  beloved,  but  she 
moved  not,  neither  did  she  speak ;  her  hands  and  face  were  like 
unto  ivory  for  whiteness.  Percival  knew  that  she  was  dead.  He 
approached  the  couch,  and,  gently  lifting  up  the  hand  by  her  side, 
Percival  slipped  onto  her  finger  the  ring  that  she  had  given  him. 
Thus  Percival  married  his  beloved  in  death.  He  found  solace  in 
becoming  one  of  the  most  famous  knights  of  King  Arthur's 
Round  Table. 


58  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


LOOK  ONWARD  TOWARD  SUCCESS! 

O,  Man!  why  look  on  the  sad  side  of  life?  There  is  work  to 
be  done.  Let  us  get  at  it.  Why  spend  this  time  in  mourning  and 
weeping?  Up!  up!  Fling  out  the  banner  of  earnestness!  Put 
on  the  robe  of  work,  of  things  worth  while.  Leave  this  despair 
and  look  up  on  all  around  us.  Perchance  we  may  not  be  here 
tomorrow.  Think  on  today  and  see  that  we  leave  not  those 
things  undone  which  should  be  done  today  thinking,  "That  can 
be  done  tomorrow." 

There  is  a  race  to  be  run,  O,  Mortal !  Perchance  you  may  be 
impeded  with  grievous  heavy  armor  while  others  by  your  side  run 
laughing  by  with  bare  feet  and  light  clothing.  But,  look !  onward 
is  the  goal.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  seems  as  you  plod  on  your  way. 
Mark!  keep  your  eye  on  that  goal.  Heed  not  the  passers  by. 
There  is  a  prize  to  win,  a  prize  for  great  and  small. 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  WAIFS'  CHRISTMAS. 

It  was  a  cold  Christmas  Eve.  From  the  great  corner  mansion 
could  be  heard  little  voices,  singing  Christmas  carols.  It  was  very 
merry  inside,  there  was  a  Christmas  tree,  and  every  one  was 
having  a  good  time.  But  outside  it  was  very  different.  Two 
little  waifs  were  beating  their  hands  against  their  chests  to  keep 
warm.  They  stamped  their  feet  in  the  snow.  After  everyone  had 
gone  to  bed  the  children  still  kept  on  singing.  They  would  not 


GLEANINGS  59 


stop,  for  at  home  they  had  a  poor  sick  mother.  They  were  so 
poor  that  they  could  not  have  a  doctor  or  even  buy  any  medicine. 
Indeed,  the  little  boys  had  long  ago  sold  their  jack-knives  (the 
only  presents  left  from  their  dear  father  who  was  dead)  to  buy 
some  medicine.  The  mistress  of  the  house  heard  the  little  waifs 
singing  after  everything  was  silent,  and  she  said  to  herself,  "I 
must  give  something  to  those  little  ones,"  so  she  roused  a  servant 
and  told  her  to  go  out  and  tell  the  children  to  come  in  and  warm 
themselves.  They  came  in  gladly  and  told  their  sad  story  to  the 
kind  lady,  who  gave  them  some  money,  and  told  them  to  come 
back  the  next  day.  They  returned  on  Christmas  Day,  and  the 
rich  children  gave  them  many  pretty  gifts.  The  kind  lady  sent  a 
doctor  to  the  waifs'  sick  mother  and  soon  she  was  well  enough 
to  work  again. 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


MY  FAVORITE  CHARACTER  IN  FICTION. 

I  am  sitting  under  the  shade  of  a  pine-tree  in  a  peaceful  forest, 
my  only  companions  being  the  birds,  and  the  only  sounds  being 
their  twittering  and  the  babbling  of  a  brook  over  its  pebbles.  'Tis 
warm  and  sultry  elsewhere — here  in  the  forest  it  is  cool.  The 
bright  green  grass  on  the  banks  of  the  brook  bends  slightly  down 
to  it  as  it  flows  ever  onward.  The  branches  of  the  stately  pines 
bend  and  sway  as  the  breezes  pass  over  them.  It  almost  seems 
as  if  the  twittering  of  the  birds  and  the  rippling  of  the  brook 
could  lull  one  to  sleep.  I  close  my  eyes  a  moment  and  think  how 
glad  I  am  to  be  able  to  enjoy  these  beauties  of  nature.  Who  is 
this  who  so  suddenly  appears?  It  is  a  pretty  young  girl  of  six 
teen,  sitting  on  the  bank  of  the  brook,  dabbling  her  feet  into  the 
brook's  clear  depths.  She  has  on  a  green  dress,  the  same  shade 


60  GLEANINGS 


as  the  grass  she  is  sitting  on.  Her  arms  and  neck  are  bare,  and 
her  dark  black  hair  falls  loosely  over  her  shoulders.  In  one  of 
her  hands  she  holds  a  pond-lily,  while  with  the  other  she  pulls  the 
grasses  from  beside  her,  and  lays  them  in  her  lap.  She  laughs 
now  and  then,  a  silvery  laugh,  which  sounds  like  the  birch  tree 
rustling.  Suddenly  the  pond-lily  slips  from  her  hand  and  falls 
into  the  brook.  The  maiden  stoops  over  to  recover  her  lost 
treasure,  when,  in  doing  so,  she  leans  over  too  far,  and  alas !  she 
too  falls  into  the  brook.  Behold !  everything  before  me  vanishes, 
and  instead  appears  a  little  cottage,  before  which  an  old  fisherman 
sits  mending  a  net.  Out  of  the  open  door  comes  a  young  girl, 
bubbling  and  sparkling  with  laughter  and  merriment.  I  recognize 
her  as  the  one  I  had  seen  sitting  on  the  bank  of  the  brook. 
"Undine,  my  child,  come  sit  beside  me,"  says  the  fisherman  to  her, 
as  he  makes  room  for  her  on  his  bench.  But  no,  Undine  does  not 
want  to,  she  runs  laughing  away  over  the  fields  and  disappears 
into  the  distance.  Soon  the  fisherman  and  his  cottage  fade  away 
from  my  sight,  and  I  find  myself  lying  under  the  aged  pine-tree 
in  the  forest,  having  dreamt  about  Undine,  my  favorite  character 
in  fiction- 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


TEN  MINUTES  SPENT  IN  THE  WOODS. 

What  beautiful  sounds  I  hear  as  I  walk  through  these  lovely 
woods !  I  stand  still  a  moment  to  listen.  I  hear  the  little  brooklet 
babbling  merrily.  It  seems  to  invite  me  to  drink  of  its  clear  water 
and  to  throw  myself  into  it  this  warm  spring  day.  It  is  a  tempta 
tion  to  do  so,  but  alas !  it  is  impossible.  I  hear  the  leaves  of  oak 
and  birch  trees  rustling  as  a  gentle  breeze  passes  over  them.  I 
walk  on  a  little,  but  stop  again  to  listen  to  a  little  bird,  calling  to 


GLEANINGS  61 


his  mate.  He  calls  very  anxiously,  and  as  he  does  not  hear  his 
mate,  he  calls  again.  Soon  as  he  finds  that  his  mate  does  not 
answer,  he  decides  that  she  has  gone  somewhere,  so  off  he  flies. 
As  I  walk  on  I  come  to  some  pine  trees.  They  are  whispering  to 
each  other.  Above  them  are  crows,  cawing  loudly.  As  I  go  on 
I  hear  the  crackle  of  dry  twigs  on  the  pine  needles,  as  I  tread  on 
them.  Oh !  what  is  that  I  hear,  breaking  through  the  stillness  of 
the  forest?  It  is  a  songster,  proudly  singing  his  early  spring 
song.  How  clearly  he  sings  it  to  his  audience,  the  babbling  brook, 
the  whispering  pines  and  the  rustling  leaves.  Perhaps  the  pine 
trees  are  whispering  about  his  song.  How  beautiful  are  all  these 
sounds  that  I  hear!  How  much  pleasanter  in  the  springtime  are 
the  sounds  of  Nature  in  the  country  than  the  noises  of  humanity 
in  the  city! 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


A  SPRING  PICTURE. 

This  afternoon  I  was  out  in  the  country,  looking  at  a  beautiful 
picture.  I  stood  on  a  little  hillock,  with  red  sorrel  around  my 
feet,  and  red  maples  over  my  head.  Looking  away  in  the  distance, 
I  saw  a  pretty  lake  in  which  was  reflected  a  quaint  little  red 
cottage,  nestled  under  a  weeping  willow,  with  some  apple  trees  in 
blossom  near  by.  Beyond  the  lake  were  fields,  green  with  new 
spring  grass.  Suddenly,  on  hearing  a  noise,  I  looked  away  from 
the  beautiful  picture,  and  saw  a  red  automobile  go  whizzing  by. 
How  that  automobile  marred  the  picture !  Why  should  this  arti 
ficial  thing  come  and  spoil  Nature's  works  of  beauty? 


62  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


THE  YORK  RIVER  AT  SUNSET. 

The  hot  August  afternoon  is  drawing  to  a  close.  It  is  high 
tide,  and  the  water,  which  is  quickly  flowing  out,  nears  the  mouth 
of  the  river.  Along  the  banks  the  meadows  stretch  away  on  one 
side,  while  on  the  other  the  silver  birch-trees  sway  gently  back 
and  forth  in  the  evening  breeze.  As  twilight  approaches,  over  the 
top  of  the  distant  horizon,  the  bright  red  sun  sinks  to  rest.  Slowly 
it  falls,  and  the  surrounding  sky  is  colored  a  brilliant  red,  purple 
and  yellow.  The  sand-flats  along  the  river  are  a  deep  purple,  and 
in  the  dark,  moving  water  is  reflected  the  brilliant  coloring  of  the 
sky.  Now  and  then  a  heron,  uttering  a  shrill  cry,  uncanny  amid 
the  surrounding  stillness,  alights  on  the  sand-flats. 

Along  the  shimmering  river  comes  a  light  green  canoe  with 
one  solitary  occupant.  The  dip  of  his  paddle  and  the  ripple  and 
splash  of  the  water  echo  and  re-echo  along  the  silent  river.  How 
calm  and  peaceful  is  his  beautiful  face !  How  the  setting  sun  seems 
reflected  in  his  gleaming  eyes,  and  how  gracefully  he  dips  his 
paddle  with  a  firm  hand  into  the  glistening  water !  The  boy  with 
the  attractive  face,  beautiful  raven  hair,  and  graceful  figure,  holds 
his  paddle  for  an  instant  involuntarily  in  air.  He  reaches  the 
wharf,  he  moors  the  canoe,  to  which  so  many  happy  memories 
cling.  The  sun  sinks  beneath  the  horizon,  darkness  comes  on, 
and  day  is  over. 


GLEANINGS  63 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


THE  ROSE'S  DAY. 

On  a  midsummer  morn  my  petals,  tinged  with  delicate  pink, 
opened  to  meet  the  glorious  sun,  rising  o'er  the  peaks  of  the 
surrounding  mountains.  'Twas  joy  to  be  alive  that  day  in  the 
meadow  on  the  mountain  side,  with  song  birds  singing  joyously 
and  bees  gathering  honey.  Each  flitting  butterfly  and  gauzy 
dragon-fly  rested  on  my  petals,  then  flew  off  to  another  flower. 
Day  wore  on,  and  Apollo  drove  his  fiery  chariot  down  behind  the 
peaks.  "Thou  'it  like  unto  a  flower,"  came  wafted  across  the 
meadow  on  the  rising  breeze,  and  turning  on  my  stem,  I  beheld 
a  blushing  maiden  walking  by  the  side  of  a  tall,  manly  youth. 
"E'en  yonder  rose,"  he  said,  when  his  song  was  at  an  end,  "is 
dazzled  by  your  fairness.  Dearest,  my  heart  o'erflows  with  love." 
Stooping,  he  plucked  me,  loveliest  flower  on  the  bush,  and  handed 
me  to  his  companion.  The  girl's  eyes  met  those  of  her  lover. 

"Dear,"  she  spoke Well,  I  was  forgotten  for  awhile,  but 

was  soon  placed  in  the  hair  of  the  maiden,  who  oft  brings  me 
forth  from  the  book,  where  I  lie  pressed,  as  a  reminder  of  that 
memorable  day. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


CANOEING. 

What  joy  on  a  hot  summer  afternoon  to  paddle  up  the  river  in 
a  light  birch-bark  canoe !  How  smoothly  and  swiftly  my  bark 
glides  over  the  calm,  still  water!  Behind  are  the  picturesque 


64  GLEANINGS 


wharves,  in  front  the  water,  clear  as  crystal,  and  on  either  hand 
the  green  meadows.  The  only  sounds  are  the  lazy  chirping  of 
the  grasshoppers,  the  distant  tinkling  of  cow  tells,  and  the  dip  of 
the  paddle.  A  bend  in  the  river  is  reached,  and  the  canoe  must 
be  guided  with  care  among  the  treacherous  eddies  and  whirlpools. 
The  river  is  again  calm,  it  narrows,  and  on  its  bank  pretty 
birches  droop  their  silvery-green  foliage  down  to  the  limpid  water. 
The  air  is  cooler,  a  gentle  zephyr  rustles  the  birch  leaves,  and  the 
sky,  pink,  purple  and  orange,  is  reflected  in  the  clear  water.  The 
sun,  one  mass  of  crimson,  rests  on  the  horizon.  The  mud-flats  up 
the  stream  are  light  purple,  and  long-legged  herons  appear.  They 
utter  a  weird  cry,  peculiarly  appropriate  to  the  heron,  and  flapping 
their  wings,  swoop  into  the  air.  Twilight  deepens.  I  turn  and 
drift  slowly  homeward  with  the  flowing  tide.  How  many  happy 
hours  have  been  spent  in  canoeing,  my  favorite  amusement ! 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


IN  "CLEOPATRA." 

The  courtyard  of  the  white  marble  Temple  of  Isis,  situated  in 
Egypt,  is  visible  to  the  audience,  and,  through  a  portal,  the  lonely 
desert  is  seen,  stretching  away  under  the  scorching  sun,  with  the 
outline  of  a  gigantic  pyramid  on  the  horizon.  Huge  palms  and 
tropical  ferns  are  scattered  on  the  parapets,  and  there  is  a  mystical 
odor  of  incense,  burned  in  honor  of  the  deity,  Isis.  A  door  opens, 
and  the  majestic  queen,  Cleopatra,  enters,  robed  in  a  white  flowing 
garment.  A  dark  cloud  appears,  and  the  palms  wave  gently,  then 
more  violently,  on  the  rising  breeze.  The  wind  increases  in 
strength  and  the  sand  on  the  desert  gathers  in  clouds.  Crash! 
The  tempest  is  here.  Clouds  of  sand  sweep  across  the  stage,  the 
wind  blows  with  renewed  strength,  Jove's  thunderbolts  are  hurled 


GLEANINGS  65 


across  the  now  darkened  sky,  and  the  lightning  flashes  light  up 
the  chaotic  scene.  Above  the  tremendous  roar  and  tempest's 
blasts  Cleopatra's  clear  voice  is  heard,  calling  on  her  native  gods. 
Suddenly  the  tempest  dies  away,  the  palms  wave  gently  as  before, 
the  desert  is  again  calm,  and  I  am  left  with  the  impression  that 
this  is  the  most  wonderful  scenic  effect  I  ever  beheld. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


MY  FRENCH  BOOK. 

Late  one  Sunday  afternoon  I  took  a  stroll  over  the  old  golf 
links,  where  the  cows  now  pasture,  with  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac" 
under  my  arm.  Although  a  warm  day,  'twas  cool  up  on  the 
moors,  that  overlooked  the  harbor  and  whence  a  glimpse  of  the 
vast  ocean  might  be  seen  in  the  distance.  Four  lazy  cows  stared 
at  me  wonderingly  as  I  walked  towards  the  little  golf  house,  on 
the  piazza  of  which  I  sat  and  looked  for  awhile  at  the  view  below. 
Then  I  became  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  the  red  leather  book ; 
Roxane,  Cyrano  and  Christian  seem  to  stand  vividly  before  me; 
I  forgot  the  rugged  moors  with  its  grazing  cows,  the  harbor  and 
the  sounding  sea.  'Twas  night  and  I  seemed  a  witness  at  the 
balcony  scene,  where  Roxane  unconsciously  gives  her  heart  to  the 
soul  of  Cyrano.  Then  the  last  scene  when  Cyrano  tries  to  keep 
the  knowledge  of  his  wound  from  the  woman  he  has  for  so  long 
loved  in  secret.  "Roxane,  adieu,  je  vais  mourir!"  The  glorious 
sun  was  setting  in  the  west,  the  rippling  waters  reflected  its  bright 
rays,  and  'twas  time  to  say  a  reluctant  "Adieu!"  to  "Cyrano  de 
Bergerac,"  my  favorite  French  play. 


66  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


"THE  LITTLE  LAME  PRINCE/' 

How  oft  in  childhood,  on  cold  winter  evenings,  did  I  sit  on  a 
footstool  by  my  mother's  chair,  before  a  roaring  fire,  listening 
intently  to  the  reading  of  the  book  which  always  fascinated  me, 
"The  Little  Lame  Prince,"  by  the  author  of  "John  Halifax,  Gen 
tleman."  And,  when  I  had  learned  to  read,  what  happy  hours 
did  I  spend,  poring  over  the  pages  which  told  about  poor  little 
Prince  Dolor.  I  never  seemed  to  tire  of  the  pathetic  little  story, 
which  appealed  to  me  whatever  mood  I  was  in,  and  which  was 
my  best  friend  during  the  measles,  whooping-cough  and  chicken- 
pox.  As  the  years  rolled  on,  the  book  never  lost  its  charm ;  nay, 
the  older  I  grew,  the  fonder  I  became  of  the  story,  the  moral  of 
which  I  had  not  discovered  in  earlier  days.  "The  Little  Lame 
Prince"  with  its  dilapidated  cover  is  still  a  constant  companion, 
nor  shall  I  ever  be  persuaded  to  procure  a  new  copy  of  the  book 
I  like  the  best. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


MY  SUMMER  HOME. 

At  the  summit  of  a  small  hill  stands  a  large  brownish-grey 
house.  In  front  the  daisies,  buttercups  and  long  grasses  nod  in 
the  breeze.  On  one  side  the  cows  and  horses  graze  in  the  rocky 
pastures,  beyond  which  a  glimpse  is  caught  of  the  harbor  and 
swiftly  flowing  river.  On  the  other  side  the  meadows  slope  away 
toward  the  rustling  pine-woods,  and,  behind,  the  "deep-voiced 


GLEANINGS  67 


neighboring  ocean"  is  seen  over  the  roof  of  the  fragrant  old  hay- 
barn.  Goats  with  their  kids  roam  about ;  hens  with  their  chickens 
strut  along;  and  cats  wkh  their  kittens  sleep  contentedly  under 
the  spreading  horse-chestnut  tree,  while  a  lively  little  brown  calf 
tries  to  butt  the  passing  dog  with  his  tiny  horns.  Corn,  lettuce, 
tomatoes  and  cucumbers  lie  ripening  in  the  sun,  and  in  autumn 
delicious  apples  hang  on  the  laden  trees,  tempting  the  passer-by 
to  pluck  and  eat  of  the  fruit,  which  brought  the  world  so  much 
trouble.  How  quickly  the  summer  months  fly  past,  and  how 
sorry  I  am  when  vacation  is  over  and  it  is  time  to  say  good-bye 
to  the  dear  old  farm! 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 

ROWING,  ONE  OF  MY  FAVORITE  SPORTS. 

It  is  a  hot  summer  afternoon,  as  we  get  into  our  skiff  to  row 
up  the  river  and  drift  back  with  the  tide.  How  smoothly  our 
boat  glides  over  the  water !  As  we  go  along  we  look  up  now  and 
then  to  gaze  at  the  scene  we  have  just  left.  On  one  side  stand 
the  picturesque  wharves,  while  on  the  other  bank  are  some  weath 
er-beaten  fishermen's  cottages,  before  which  play  several  young 
children.  To  the  right  and  left  of  us  stretch  the  green  meadows, 
far  away  in  the  distance,  with  the  hot  sun  beating  down  on  them. 
As  we  turn  a  curve  of  the  river,  an  old  wooden  drawbridge,  under 
which  the  waters  ripple  and  flow,  forming  eddies  and  whirlpools, 
comes  into  sight.  The  river  becomes  narrower,  and  on  its  banks 
are  silvery  birches.  It  is  a  temptation,  not  to  be  resisted,  to  lie 
down  under  their  cool  inviting  shade,  after  the  fatigue  of  rowing. 
After  resting  awhile,  we  get  into  our  skiff,  and  again  take  up  our 
oars.  The  sky  is  illuminated  with  pink,  purple  and  yellow,  which 
colors  are  reflected  in  the  cool,  clear  water.  The  brilliant  sun 


68  GLEANINGS 


seems  to  rest  on  the  horizon-line.  The  mud  flats,  farther  on, 
appear  a  light  purple,  on  which  are  some  heron,  each  standing  on 
one  leg.  As  we  come  up  to  them,  they  utter  a  cry,  peculiarly 
appropriate  to  the  sunset  hour.  Soon,  as  only  the  rim  of  the  sun 
can  be  seen,  we  turn  our  skiff  and  drift  homeward.  When  I 
reach  home  I  decide  that  the  day  has  been  one  of  the  pleasantest 
I  ever  spent,  enjoying  one  of  my  favorite  sports,  rowing. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


MY  ROOM   IN  SUMMER. 

My  room  is  very  simple.  The  walls,  on  which  there  are  a  few 
pictures,  are  tinted  a  light  fawn  color.  The  floor  is  covered  with 
a  plain  straw-matting.  The  furniture  consists  of  a  few  old-fash 
ioned  chairs,  a  high  posted  bedstead,  a  bureau,  and  a  bookcase. 
My  most  beautiful  pictures  are  the  lovely  scenes  from  the  win 
dows.  There  is  a  spreading  horse-chestnut  tree,  under  which 
stands  the  old  picturesque  weather-beaten  pump.  In  the  back 
ground  is  the  old  grey  barn,  under  whose  eaves  the  barn  swallows 
love  to  build  their  nests  and  rear  their  young.  From  the  other 
window  a  different  view  appears.  Before  me  stretches  the 
pasture,  where  the  mare  and  her  colt  frolic  and  gambol,  till  when 
evening  comes  they  stand  patiently,  waiting  before  the  gate  to  be 
taken  to  the  barn.  Beyond  the  pastures,  to  the  right,  far  away 
in  the  distance,  is  a  thick  pine-forest.  Occasionally  the  crows  fly 
over  the  topmost  branches  of  the  pines,  uttering  piercing  screams 
as  they  pursue  their  onward  course.  To  the  left  can  be  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  light  blue  sea.  Also  beautiful  sunsets  can  be  seen 
from  the  windows. 


GLEANINGS  69 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


THE  CHURCHYARD. 

The  old  churchyard  is  still  and  silen-t.  Overhead  are  the  ven 
erable  elms,  whose  tops  sway  in  the  breezes,  seeming  to  whisper 
gently  to  those  lying  below.  The  dark  green  grass  grows  up  un 
heeded  and  covers  the  grey  stones,  whose  writing  time  has  effaced, 
and  underneath  which  lie  those  long  ago  forgotten.  Under  the 
linden,  a  large  boulder,  placed  there  to  prevent  her  spirit  from 
frightening  the  peaceful  inhabitants,  marks  the  grave  of  a  witch. 
There  is  but  one  new  grave  stone,  which  bears  an  inscription, 
name,  date  of  birth — all  but  the  date  of  death — of  the  old  gray- 
headed  man,  who  seems  to  belong  to  the  past  century,  and  who 
sits  for  hours  gazing  at  the  spot  where  he  will  soon  rest  in  peace. 

A  stone  wall,  gray  from  age,  borders  the  churchyard.  There 
was  a  debate  at  the  town  hall  not  long  ago  as  to  whether  a  new 
wall  should  be  built  around  the  graveyard.  A  feeble  man  arose 
and  said,  "Wai,  I  reckon  that  them  what's  out  don't  want  to  git 
in,  and  them  that's  in  there  can't  git  out,  so  whar's  the  use  of  a 
new  stone  wall?"  His  speech  carried  the  day,  and  no  new  wall 
was  built. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 

MY  QUEEREST  DREAM. 

'Twas  a  cold,  windy  October  afternoon,  the  high  waves  dashed 
against  the  cliffs,  covering  them  with  spray,  and  the  tide  came  up 
higher  and  higher  on  the  beach,  on  which  I  stood.  Suddenly  the 
wind  increased  in  fury,  the  water  rushed  onward  like  a  tidal 


70  GLEANINGS 


wave,  and  I  seemed  to  be  struggling  up  an  almost  vertical  wall  of 
rolling  pebbles,  -to  escape  from  the  foaming  sea.  Onward  came 
the  angry  waters,  gaining  upon  me  inch  by  inch.  No  headway 
could  I  make,  no  foothold  could  I  gain  among  the  slippery 
stones.  Not  a  soul  near !  Could  I  reach  the  large  deserted  house 
at  the  top  of  the  wall?  I  strained  every  nerve  for  the  ordeal. 
Ever  onward  came  the  resounding  waves.  There,  up  there,  was 
Life,  here  Death.  Clutching  at  the  stones  on  hands  and  knees,  I 
made  my  way  toward  -the  house.  For  a  moment  the  waters  re 
ceded,  and  then,  with  redoubled  fury,  gained  upon  their  prey. 
What  a  battle  against  waves  and  wind!  One  step  farther  to 
reach  the  house.  Would  I  slip?  Below  the  seething  flood,  one 
step  away  my  haven  at  last!  Exhausted,  I  fell  unconscious  on 
the  piazza.,  and  awoke  from  a  dream  I  have  dreamt  -thrice. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


A  PICTURESQUE  GARDEN. 

There  is  a  little  old  red  farmhouse  in  Maine,  situated  near  the 
sea.  The  summer  never  seems  complete  unless  a  few  minutes 
are  spent  in  its  most  picturesque  garden.  The  road  leading  to  the 
house  passes  through  beautiful  shady  pine-woods  where  silence 
reigns  supreme,  save  for  the  occasional  whirr  of  a  partridge  or 
the  caw  of  a  crow.  Emerging  from  the  wood  a  glimpse  is  caught 
of  the  blue  water  in  the  distance  and  the  little  farmhouse,  nestled 
at  the  foot  of  a  small  hill.  The  low  house  is  covered  with  trumpet- 
flowers  and  virginia-creepers.  An  old-fashioned  gate  opens  into 
the  garden,  and  over  the  doorway  is  a  trellis  on  which  red  roses 
intertwine. 

The  garden  is  at  the  height  of  its  beauty  in  August  when 
pinks,  asters,  pansies,  heliotrope,  poppies  and  mignonette  grow 


GLEANINGS  71 


together  in  a  tangle — for  nature  is  its  only  gardener — of  fragrance 
mingled  with  the  salt  breeze.  In  autumn  also  the  garden  is  at 
tractive  when  seeds  hang  ripe  and  leaves  put  on  fall  colors.  How 
desolate  must  this  secluded  place  be  in  winter  when  spray  dashes 
high  on  cliff  and  rock!  Many  artists  have  come  to  paint  this 
garden,  and  they  always  leave  with  a  treasure  on  their  canvases. 


Written,  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


WHAT  MY  CITY  NEEDS  MOST. 

It  was  a  warm  winter's  day.  The  sun  rose  brightly  on  the 
melting  snow,  the  sleigh-bells  tiakled  merrily  as  the  horses  flew 
over  the  ground  with  renewed  vigor.  Looking  out  of  my  window 
I  saw  a  cart,  in  which  were  five  men,  standing  by  the  roadside. 
Instead  of  shoveling  snow,  the  men  were  smoking  and  conversing, 
but  to  my  astonishment  there  was  only  one  shovel  for  five  men. 
One  of  the  men  soon  condescended  to  throw  one  shovelful  of 
snow  into  the  cart,  but  his  attention  was  immediately  distracted 
by  an  automobile  which  had  been  "hauled  up."  So,  for  twenty 
minutes  the  city,  which  was  paying  for  the  work  of  five  men, 
profited  by  but  one  shovelful  of  snow.  Should  the  citizens  pay 
taxes  for  loafers?  Does  not  the  city  need  better  superintendents, 
and,  as  a  result,  would  not  the  streets  be  kept  in  better  condition  ? 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


A  SCENE  IN  A  STREET  CAR. 

Some  people  think  that  our  car  fares  are  too  high,  but  I  saw 
an  instance  when  I  considered  them  very  low.  Last  winter,  as  I 
was  going  out  to  the  country,  a  woman,  carrying  a  baby,  came 
into  the  car.  Two  little  girls,  under  five,  followed  her,  holding 


72  GLEANINGS 


on  to  her  skirts  as  though  their  lives  depended  on  it.  The  con 
ductor  carried  a  market  basket  for  her,  and  several  brown  paper 
bundles.  A  polite  man  gave  his  seat  to  the  woman.  As  she  sat 
down,  the  baby  in  her  arms  began  to  cry.  A  cracker,  brought 
from  the  recesses  of  the  market-basket,  was  stuffed  into  the 
baby's  mouth.  As  the  cracker  had  no  effect  on  the  howling  infant, 
one  of  the  children  gave  it  a  stick  of  candy,  which  appeased  the 
baby. 

"Fares,  please!"  The  woman  began  -to  fumble  for  her  purse 
and^  as  soon  as  she  had  found  it,  the  baby  began  to  cry  again. 
The  woman  handed  the  conductor  five  cents  and  asked  for  a  trans 
fer.  Two  children,  a  baby,  a  woman,  a  market  basket  and  three 
bundles  went  on  one  fare  in  two  different  cars ! 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


A  DOG'S  PRESENCE  OF  MIND. 

"What  a  chump!"  exclaimed  my  uncle,  when  he  saw  a  little 
trembling  puppy,  undecided  which  way  to  turn,  standing  before 
him.  From  that  day  forth  the  dog  was  called  Chump,  but,  after 
he  had  been  named,  we  found  that  he  ill  deserved  his  title.  He 
was  faithful  to  us  for  twelve  years,  and  did  many  commendable 
things,  showing  presence  of  mind,  bravery  and  "spunkiness." 
Chump  once  saved  the  house,  in  the  following  way.  Mamma 
was  having  a  dinner-party,  and  Chump  lay  before  the  open  fire 
in  the  library.  Suddenly  a  plaintive  whine  was  heard  from  the 
threshold  of  the  dining-room,  and  Chump  walked  in.  He  was 
never  allowed  to  be  around  at  meal  times,  and  Mamma  was 
greatly  astonished  that  he  had  broken  the  rule,  for  he  was  an 
obedient  dog.  After  prolonging  his  stay,  and  seeing  that  no  one 
paid  any  heed  to  his  cries,  Chump  went  up  to  Mamma  and  caught 


GLEANINGS  73 


hold  of  her  gown.  Mamma  knew  that  something  must  be  wrong, 
so  she  got  up,  and,  following  Chump,  was  led  to  the  library. 
There  on  the  floor  was  a  burning  log,  that  had  rolled  out  of  the 
fireplace!  Chump  received  his  due  praise,  and  after  that  he 
always  went  around  from  fire  to  fire,  and  barked  if  anything  was 
wrong.  Thus  Chump  saved  the  house  by  his  presence  of  mind. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 

DARED  THE  "BOOGIE." 
(A  Recollection  of  Childhood.) 

What  tender  memories  are  awakened  as  we  look  back  over  our 
past  childhood!  How  laughable  and  ludicrous  so  many  of  our 
acts  appear !  We  lived  formerly  in  the  country.  Past  one  side  of 
our  house  ran  a  steep  lane,  down  which  my  brother,  aged  three, 
and  I,  two  years  his  senior,  were  in  the  habit  of  coasting  on  a  tri 
cycle.  For  some  unknown  reason  we  both  stood  in  mortal  terror 
of  all  express  and  ash-men.  Whenever  a  cart  appeared,  we  ran 
and  hid  until  the  bundles  had  been  delivered  or  the  ashes  removed. 
One  day,  after  coasting  down  several  times,  we  were  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  when  an  ash-cart  was  seen,  looming  up  in  the  distance. 
Terror  lent  wings  to  our  feet  and  we  flew  to  the  house,  leaving 
the  tricycle  behind.  Upon  reaching  the  piazza.,  the  thought 
entered  my  head,  "The  ash-men  will  take  the  tricycle."  Pos 
sessed  with  the  thought  of  the  possible  robbery,  I  ran  down  the 
hill,  almost  tumbling  headlong  in  my  mad  haste,  secured  the 
abandoned  tricycle,  and  reached  the  house  tired  and  out  of  breath 
before  the  cart  had  stopped.  What  a  heroine  I  appeared  in  my 
brother's  eyes! 


74  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


WHEN  SAMBO  FORGOT. 

I  am  Sambo,  a  cocker-spaniel  of  prize- winning  family.  My 
first  home  was  in  the  country,  where  there  are  fields,  birds  and 
lots  of  nice  things.  One  day,  the  most  eventful  of  my  life,  I 
went  on  a  long  walk  with  my  mistress.  We  were  walking  along 
a  strange  road,  when  suddenly  I  saw  a  little  fluffy  thing,  strutting 
about  in  a  field.  Thinking  it  an  ordinary  bird,  I  chased  it,  but 
it  didn't  vanish.  The  thing  ran,  I  ran ;  away  we  went,  the  thing 
ahead,  round  corners,  over  fences  and  back  again.  I  thought  I'd 
never  catch  it;  the  holes  in  the  ground  kept  tripping  me  up. 
Finally,  after  a  struggle,  I  caught  the  animal  in  my  mouth.  How 
good  the  soft,  fluffy  thing  tasted!  I  suddenly  remembered  my 
mistress,  I  had  forgotten  during  the  chase.  Thinking  she  would 
like  a  taste  too,  I  hunted  up  and  down  the  road  and  saw  her  at 
last  going  home.  The  screeching  thing  was  heavy.  I  caught  up 
and  dropped  it  at  my  mistress'  feet.  But,  instead  of  thanking  me 
for  all  my  trouble,  she  only  scolded.  Although  I  have  often  since 
chased  strange  birds,  called  chickens,  I  shall  never  forget  my  first 
chase. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 

A  PENCIL  MANIA. 

When  about  seven  years  old,  I  was  very  fond  of  pencils  of 
every  description.  Nothing  delighted  my  heart  so  much  as  a 
present  of  a  package  of  pencils  or  crayons.  But  instead  of 
making  use  of  them,  I  hoarded  the  pencils  in  a  secret  hiding  place 


GLEANINGS  75 


until  I  had  quite  a  collection.  There  were  long,  new  ones,  which 
bore  no  marks  of  use ;  short  ones,  very  much  chewed  at  the  ends ; 
medium-sized  ones ;  slate  pencils,  from  the  size  of  Emmy  Lou's 
stump  to  that  presented  to  her  by  the  undaunted  Billy ;  and  crayons 
of  every  color  of  the  rainbow.  Many  hours  were  spent  gazing 
earnestly  at  the  hoard,  and  each  pencil  was  examined  with  minute 
care.  Every  one  had  its  story;  some  told  of  tears  shed  over 
arithmetic,  the  study  for  which  I  never  cared,  others  brought 
back  to  my  memory  happy  summer  days  spent  in  crayoning  some 
picture  while  drifting  in  a  canoe,  and  still  others  reminded  me  of 
the  donors  of  my  favorite  gift.  I  am  ashamed  to  own  that  I  still 
have  a  collection  of  pencils,  hidden  away  in  a  drawer,  a  remem 
brance  of  my  childhood  hobby. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


BOB  AND  BILL. 

Conversation  between  Bob  and  Bill  on  their  way  home  from 
school : 

Bob — Say,  Bill,  have  yer  writ  yer  composition  fer  tomorrow? 

Bill — Sure,  it's  a  cinch. 

Bob — What  d'yer  write  about? 

Bill — Oh!  I  writ  about  Washington. 

Bob — Well,  what  d'yer  write  about  Washington? 

Bill — About  the  tea  party  he  had  on  his  back  porch.  (Bill 
seems  mixed  up  about  Washington  and  the  Boston  Tea  Party.) 
What  d'yer  write? 

Bob — Well,  I  told  all  about  the  Battle  of  Lexington,  where  the 
American  Minute  Men  fought  the  British  Hour  Men. 

Bill  (rather  puzzled) — What  happened? 


76  GLEANINGS 


Bob — Why,  don't  yer  know?    Lincoln  freed  the  slaves.     (Bob 
seems  mixed  up  about  the  Revolution  and  the  Civil  War.) 
Bill — Say,  we're  all  right,  Bobby. 
Bob— You  bet,  we'll  git  bloomin'  good  marks  on  thim. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


A  RED  NECKTIE. 

"I'm  so  tired,  hot  and  ennuyee,"  and  Lucile  installed  herself  in 
the  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the  open  window,  looking  out  on 
the  garden,  to  continue  knitting  the  unfinished  necktie.  Who  was 
to  be  the  future  owner  of  the  red  cravat?  Many  of  Lucile's 
admirers  would  have  liked  it,  but —  "Why  did  I  quarrel  with 
Francis?"  she  sighed.  "Would  that  this  might  be  a  peace  token, 
but  he  is  at  Harvard — ,"  and  Lucile  turned  toward  the  blossoming 
garden.  The  apple  trees  emitted  a  fragrant  odor,  violets  peeped 
up  among  bright  green  leaves,  the  sun  shone,  robins  sang,  and 
nature  was  happy.  The  fountain  invited  her  to  its  plashing 
waters,  the  wisteria  arbor  to  its  cooling  shade,  but  Lucile  re 
mained  indoors,  lost  in  thought. 

Up  the  gravel  path  came  a  youth,  aged  nineteen,  with  ruddy 
cheeks,  light  hair,  high  forehead,  and  a  well  shaped  mouth  and 
chin.  He  crossed  the  piazza,  opened  the  door,  and  entered  the 
library,  where  Lucile  sat,  her  eyes  on  the  garden,  but  her  thoughts 
many  miles  away. 

"Lucile!"  he  cried.  She  turned  suddenly.  "Francis,  forgive 
me!"  She  held  out  the  unfinished  cravat,  and  said,  "Red  for 
Harvard,  and,  let  me  say,  red  for  reconciliation!" 


GLEANINGS  77 


Written  aJt  sixteen  years  of  age. 


BY  JUNIOR  PRIZE. 

The  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  a  grey  mist  covered  the 
Charles  and  its  green  banks,  the  sky  was  overcast  and  the  boister 
ous  March  wind  shook  the  tiny  drops  from  the  budding  trees. 
What  a  dismal,  dreary  day,  after  the  heart  of  "II  Penseroso"! 
One  could  not  go  out,  and  the  large  pile  of  books,  to  be  studied 
before  night,  was  most  discouraging.  As  I  looked  up,  Sunday's 
Herald  caught  my  eye.  I  glanced  at  the  subject,  "Story  of  a 

Red ";  Virgil,  Goethe,  Racine  and  Burke  received 

a  humiliating  fall,  and  I  set  to  work  at  the  essay.  Soon  the 
books  were  elevated  from  their  degraded  position,  the  rain  was 
over,  and  lessons  received  my  attention.  A  few  weeks  later  I 
was  greeted  at  the  breakfast  table  with  the  information  that  I 
had  earned  my  first  dollar.  "  'Tis  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
any  good." 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


ONE  STUDY  PERIOD. 

Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  Study  period  has  begun,  and  I  am  late 
in  arriving,  having  had  a  hard  time  to  find  my  "carried-off-by- 
someone-by-mistake"  pen,  which  means  I  must  stay  in  ten  minutes 
at  recess  for  penalty.  Temperature  89  degrees.  Am  trying  to 
finish  a  composition  in  French  on  Voltaire,  which  is  due  next 
period,  and  which  should  be  500  words  in  length.  Have  counted 
twice.  Only  410.  What  can  I  say?  My  mind  is  full  of  inter- 


78  GLEANINGS 


esting  anecdotes  about  other  French  writers,  but  what  good  are 
they  to  me  now?  Teacher  leaves  room.  Suppressed  giggles  be 
hind  me.  Ten  minutes  gone.  Not  another  word  written.  Alarm 
clock  goes  off  suddenly.  Who's  set  it  this  time,  I  wonder? 
Fifteen!  Balloon  flies  up,  appearing  from  a  desk.  Twenty! 
I'm  frantic.  Music,  or  rather  noise,  is  heard  down  stairs.  The 
little  girls  are  rehearsing  French  songs.  Twenty-five!  What 
shall  I  write?  That  racket  below  literally  shakes  the  house. 
Thirty !  It's  hopeless.  Spitballs  fly  in  my  direction.  Thirty-five ! 
Chair  tips  over  with  a  crash.  Forty!  Teacher  re-enters  room. 
Rain  of  spitballs  ceases.  Ding!  Study  period  over.  Composi 
tion  still  unfinished.  All  up  with  me. 


Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 


THE  DAY  I  LOST  MY  BALANCE. 

It  was  a  bright  September  morning  several  years  ago,  an  ideal 
day  for  a  row  in  the  harbor.  I  started  out  with  a  friend  to  get 
the  rowboat,  whose  rope  was  attached  to  the  stone  pier.  The 
tide  was  low,  but  after  hauling  the  boat  to  the  wharf,  my  friend 
managed  to  jump  in,  stepping  in  the  crevices  between  the  rocks. 
Then,  when  it  was  my  turn  to  leap,  my  friend  held  on  to  the  pier 
while  I  carefully  stepped  in  the  crevices,  holding  meanwhile  to 
the  projecting  board  for  support.  The  board,  which  I  thought 
steady,  suddenly  gave  way.  I  lost  my  balance  and  down  I 
flopped  on  to  one  side  of  our  craft.  Our  combined  weights  were 
too  much,  the  boat  filled,  and  overboard  we  went.  Down!  down 
into  the  cold  water.  I  was  wondering  if  I  should  ever  touch 
bottom,  and  whether  we  should  attempt  to  climb  up  the  pier  or 
swim  ashore,  when  I  found  we  were  only  up  to  our  necks.  We 
waded  ashore  amid  mud  and  crabs,  and  went  dripping  home  to 


GLEANINGS  79 

our  respective  houses.  My  cousin,  whom  I  was  visiting,  much 
amused  at  my  "drowned-rat"  appearance,  still  teases  me  about 
the  day  I  fell  overboard. 

Written  at  sixteen  years  of  age. 

EXCERPTS  FROM  MY  DIARY. 
JUNE  13TH. 

I've  finished  the  "Goldsmith";  now  for  the  essay  on  his  char 
acter.  I  often  wonder  if  illustrious  men  can  look  down  on  us, 
or  rather  some  of  them  look  up,  and  see  us  writing,  thinking  and 
talking  about  them,  or  reading  or  playing  their  compositions. 

SEPTEMBER  HTH. 

Went  on  a  six  mile  walk  with in  the  morning.     He 

got  me  a  huge  bunch  of  pond-lilies.  I  counted  forty-six  grass 
hoppers  in  my  skirts,  when  I  got  home,  from  a  field  which  we 
crossed. 

OCTOBER  3RD. 

Left  dear,  darling  Seabury  (Maine)  on  the  9:52  train,  with 
a  very  reluctant  heart.  What  a  pity  to  leave  when  all  the  leaves 
on  the  trees  are  turning  orange,  purple  and  red,  and  when  the 
sky  is  so  clear  and  blue,  and  the  water  so  sparkling  and  sunny. 
Nature  is  indeed  beautiful !  Where  can  it  be  more  appreciated 
than  at  Seabury? 

OCTOBER  31  ST. 

What  is  the  use  of  keeping  a  diary  ?  I  uselto  believe  in  it,  but 
now — .  "All  the  world's  a  stage."  The  curtain  rises,  and  All 
Wrong  enters,  the  wrong  words  are  uttered.  A  hiss  from  -the 
gallery.  He  must  leave  the  stage  without  applause  and  with  a 
broken  heart. 


iiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimi 


Stories 


iiiimiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiMiiiii 


GLEANINGS  83 


Written  at  eleven  years  of  age. 


GRETEI/S  CHRISTMAS. 

Gretel  sat  on  a  little  wooden  stool  before  the  hearth,  where  no 
fire  burned.  It  was  Christmas  eve,  but  what  a  dreary  one! 
Gretel  thought  of  the  happy  times  she  used  to  have  in  good  old 
Holland,  where  rich  and  poor  alike  put  their  little  candles  out 
of  the  windows,  waiting  for  Christ  to  come  and  fill  their  wooden 
shoes.  No!  In  America  they  did  not  do  that,  only  the  rich 
could  have  pleasures  on  Christmas,  and  the  poor  must  go  without. 
Gretel  also  thought  of  her  dear  grandfather,  who  used  to  take 
her  to  Mass  every  Sunday,  where  she  would  say  her  little  prayer 
to  Jesus.  At  the  thought  Gretel  burst  into  tears.  Soon  her  step 
mother  would  come  and  beat  Gretel  for  not  having  supper  ready. 
Oh!  that  cruel  step-mother!  How  could  her  father  have  mar 
ried  such  a  wicked  person?  Gretel  thought  of  her  dear  mother, 
who  had  been  laid  in  the  dark  earth  just  a  year  ago  that  night. 
Her  mother's  last  words  to  her  husband  had  been,  "Take  good 
care  of  little  Gretel,  and  make  her  grow  up  a  good  woman." 
But  her  father  had  not  been  faithful;  he  had  brought  Gretel  to 
America  and  married  this  wicked  woman.  He  no  longer  cared 
for  little  Gretel ;  he  cared  only  for  drink.  Here  in  America  there 
were  no  windmills,  no  kind  people,  and  no  meadows,  where  one 
could  romp  and  play;  here  there  was  nothing  but  dirty,  dingy 
houses  and  crowded  streets. 

As  Gretel  looked  steadily  at  the  old  ashes  in  the  fireplace  a 
flame  suddenly  sprung  up  from  them,  and  the  fireplace  was  no 
longer  small,  but  became  as  large  as  those  in  Holland.  By  the 
hearth  were  two  little  wooden  shoes,  and  Gretel  was  no  longer 
by  herself  in  the  step-mother's  house,  but  was  at  home  in  Holland, 
surrounded  by  her  dear  people.  Her  mother  was  there  once 


84  GLEANINGS 

more,  her  father,  and  dear  grandfather  in  his  old  arm-chair.  How 
happy  she  was!  Yes,  she,  Gretel,  was  actually  happy,  which  she 
had  not  been  since  she  came  to  America  in  the  horrid  ship  that  had 
made  her  so  sick.  Gretel  looked  around  the  room,  and  saw  her 
playmates,  romping  and  playing  games.  She  jumped  up  from  her 
little  chair,  and  ran  and  played  with  her  friends.  How  glad  she 
was  to  be  with  them  again  and  how  happy  they  were  to  have 
Gretel  with  them  once  more.  Soon  it  was  time  for  the  friends  to 
go  home,  and  Gretel  went  down  to  the  door  with  them,  kissing 
each  in  turn.  Then,  coming  upstairs,  she  climbed  into  her  bed 
in  her  own  little  room,  with  the  clean  muslin  curtains  at  the 
windows  and  the  pretty  red  roses  on  the  walls.  Oh!  how  snug 
and  comfortable  she  felt  in  her  cozy  bed,  while  the  wind  roared 
around  the  house,  and  whistled  down  the  great  chimney! 

Suddenly  Gretel  opened  her  eyes  and  found  that  she  was  not 
in  Holland,  but  in  America  in  her  step-mother's  house.  All  had 
vanished  into  thin  air ;  her  little  room  with  its  pretty  muslin  cur 
tains  and  the  dear  old-fashioned  fireplace  was  no  longer  there. 
All  had  disappeared !  She  was  on  the  wooden  stool  in  the  cold, 
dismal  room,  with  the  wind  whistling  through  the  cracks  in  the 
wall.  Gretel  was  back  again  in  real  life.  She  found  that  it  was 
morning,  and  she  had  been  dreaming.  The  door  of  the  room 
opened,  and  in  walked  not  her  step-mother,  but  a  beautiful  lady, 
who,  coming  up  to  Gretel,  said,  in  a  musical  voice,  "My  child,  you 
are  going  to  come  home  with  me,  and  stay  with  my  two  little 
girls  always.  Your  step-mother  was  run  over  this  morning  by 
a  heavy  cart,  and  killed,  and  your  father  was  found  intoxicated 
on  my  steps  last  evening."  Gretel  was  too  surprised  to  speak, 
but  the  kind  lady  handed  her  a  pretty  brown  coat  and  hat,  which 
Gretel  put  on. 

The  kind  lady  took  Gretel  home,  where  she  stayed  forever,  help 
ing  with  the  housework.  The  lady  had  two  little  girls  of  Gretel's 
age.  In  the  evening  of  this  memorable  Christmas  day,  the  chil 
dren  were  led  to  a  brilliantly  lighted  room,  in  the  middle  of  which 
stood  a  gorgeous  Christmas  tree,  with  presents  for  everyone. 


GLEANINGS  85 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 


THE  SKIPPER'S  DREAM. 
Chapter  I. 

Old  Skipper  Donnell  sat  among  the  rocks  by  the  sea-shore, 
smoking  his  pipe  after  the  day's  work.  He  looked  out  to  sea, 
and  saw  the  little  sail-boats  dancing  over  the  sparkling  waves, 
and  thought  how  treacherous  those  waves  could  be.  Long  ago  he 
had  a  little  girl  with  eyes  as  blue  as  the  corn-flower  and  cheeks 
like  roses.  How  dearly  the  old  skipper  had  loved  his  only  child! 
Once  he  took  her  with  him  on  a  fishing  voyage.  O,  sad  fate! 
When  the  schooner  was  out  at  sea  a  storm  arose,  and  tossed  the 
ship  from  side  to  side.  His  little  girl,  running  onto  the  deck,  was 
caught  by  a  large  wave  and  swept  away.  That  was  the  last  he 
had  seen  of  her.  How  he  had  lamented  her  loss!  The  skipper 
sat  dreamily  taking  a  whiff  a-t  his  pipe  every  few  moments. 

Chapter  II. 

Skipper  Donnell  was  greatly  surprised  to  find  that  everything 
about  him  had  suddenly  turned  green.  Above  him  he  saw  the 
moon,  reflected  on  the  rippling  water.  Where  could  he  be  ?  Yes, 
he  was  down  in  the  depths  of  the  sea.  How  cool  the  dark  green 
water  felt  and  how  soothing  was  the  lapping  of  the  waves  above 
his  head.  What  was  that  object  coming  in  sight  ?  The  figure  ap 
proached,  followed  by  many  others  like  it.  As  they  came  nearer 
the  skipper  saw  that  they  were  children,  but,  instead  of  legs  and 
feet,  they  had  tails  of  fishes  and  wore  silvery  scales  instead  of 
clothes.  The  old  skipper  had  heard  such  things  called  mer 
maids.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  but  they  did  not  notice 
him,  nor  indeed  did  they  see  him.  They  seemed  to  be  bearing  a 


86  GLEANINGS 


certain  object.  Going  up  to  them,  the  skipper  saw  it  was  a  sleep 
ing  child,  with  rosy  lips  and  cheeks.  Her  hair  fell  about  her  face 
in  golden  curls. 

Chapter  III. 

Suddenly  Skipper  Donnell  turned  and  found  himself  by  the 
seashore,  the  moon  and  the  stars  above  him,  the  sea  before  him, 
and  the  grey  rocks  about  him.  He  got  up,  and,  going  home,  told 
his  wife  of  his  strange  adventure  with  the  mermaids.  To  this 
day  he  is  undecided  as  to  whether  it  was  a  dream  or  really  true. 


Written  at  twelve  years  of  age. 

SELF-SACRIFICE. 
(Written  after  reading  "Hans  Brinker") 

The  country  of  Holland  is  below  the  level  of  the  sea,  therefore 
the  inhabitants  have  built  dikes  to  prevent  the  water  from 
flooding  the  land.  Once  long  ago  in  Holland,  there  lived  a  little 
boy.  One  afternoon,  when  he  was  eight  years  old,  he  asked  his 
father  if  he  could  go  and  take  some  cakes  to  a  blind  man,  who 
lived  far  from  his  home.  He  received  his  father's  consent  and 
off  he  started.  As  soon  as  he  had  given  the  cakes  to  the  blind 
man  he  started  to  return  home.  Soon  he  perceived  that  night  was 
coming  on,  so  he  hurried  along  as  fast  as  he  could.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  noise.  What  could  it  be?  He  looked  down  on  the  dike, 
and  saw  a  little  stream  of  water,  trickling  from  a  tiny  hole.  If 
this  water  were  left  to  run  out  very  long,  the  hole  would  become 
larger  and  larger,  until  the  whole  country  of  Holland  would  be 
flooded.  The  little  boy,  although  so  young,  knew  what  might 
happen  if  this  hole  were  left.  He  did  not  even  wait  to  get  stones 
and  sticks,  with  which  to  stop  up  the  hole,  but  he  stuffed  his  fat 


GLEANINGS  87 

little  finger  into  it.  He  called  for  help,  but,  alas!  no  one  heard 
him.  He  shouted  and  shouted,  but  he  soon  found  that  his  calling 
was  in  vain,  for  no  one  was  within  hearing  distance.  After  a 
while  the  little  boy's  hand  became  very  numb,  but  every  time  he 
took  his  finger  away,  the  water  gushed  out  so  strongly  that  he 
resolved  to  keep  his  finger  there,  even  unto  death.  What  a  weary 
night  he  spent.  Would  he  ever  be  in  such  pain  again?  He  felt 
as  if  knives  were  sticking  into  his  arm.  At  last,  in  the  early 
morning,  when  a  clergyman  was  coming  from  the  house  of  a  sick 
person,  he  heard  groaning  and  cries  of  pain  and  anguish.  Look 
ing  down,  he  saw  there  a  small  boy  with  his  finger  stuck  into  a 
hole  in  the  dike. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  the  clergyman  asked. 

"Holding  back  the  water  from  flooding  our  country,"  was  the 
reply.  "Tell  them  to  come  quickly." 

The  clergyman  ran  and  got  some  people;  the  hole  was  stuffed 
up,  and  the  little  boy  was  carried  home,  having  saved  Holland 
from  a  sad  disaster.  Is  not  this  an  incident  of  self-sacrifice? 


Written  at  fourteen  years  of  age. 


A  LEAF  FROM  A  DIARY. 

I  am  not  a  man  of  letters,  neither  am  I  an  untruthful  man,  but, 
as  I  read  over  the  following  words  that  I  have  written,  it  seems 
to  me  that  they  are  as  far  from  being  true  as  "The  Adventures 
of  Baron  Munchausen." 

Last  night  I  took  my  lighted  candle  up  the  stairs  of  my  Cam 
bridge  residence.  When  I  awoke  this  morning  how  changed  was 
everything!  As  usual,  I  heard  the  twittering  of  the  birds,  but 
mingled  with  it  was  a  strange  sound  that  I  had  never  heard 
before,  resembling  a  fog  horn.  I  dressed  myself  hurriedly,  and 


38  GLEANINGS 

went  down  to  the  ground  floor.  There  I  saw  a  strange  man,  with 
his  mouth  up  to  the  wall,  speaking.  I  thought  that  he  must  be 
crazy,  and  I  asked  him  what  he  was  doing.  He  seemed  very 
much  surprised  to  see  me,  and  replied  that  he  was  telephoning. 
What  that  meant  I  could  not  perceive,  but  I  asked  him  whom  he 
was  talking  to. 

"To  Mr.  Campbell  of  New  York,"  he  replied. 

"Why,  Charles  Campbell  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  but  how 
can  you  speak  to  New  York  from  Cambridge?  How  do  you 
speak  through  the  wall?"  I  asked. 

"Mr.  Charles  Campbell  died  almost  one  hundred  years  ago.  I 
am  talking  to  his  grandson,  or  rather  I  expect  to  be  in  a  minute. 
If  you  do  not  know  what  a  telephone  is,  you  must,  I  think,  be 
very  stupid.  But  what  are  you  doing  in  my  house  and  in  that 
strange  costume? 

"How  dare  you  speak  to  me  thus?"  I  asked.  "This  is  my 
house,  and  I  hope  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  allow  me  to  live 
in  it,  and  to  wear  what  I  please."  With  that  I  walked  away  to 
the  front  door.  He  stared  at  me  as  if  he  thought  me  a  lunatic. 
On  the  way  I  found  many  changes  since  last  night.  On  top  of  the 
stair-case  was  a  thing,  that  looked  like  a  lantern,  hanging  up,  and 
all  around  me  were  unfamiliar  and  strange  pieces  of  furniture. 
I  touched  myself  to  make  sure  that  I  was  not  dreaming.  No,  I 
could  not  be  dreaming  for  I  was  there.  I  thought  I  must  be 
either  sick  or  crazy.  I  opened  the  front  door,  to  see  if  the  cool 
morning  air  would  make  me  come  to  myself  again.  There  new 
wonders  greeted  my  astonished  eyes!  The  road  that  yesterday 
had  been  so  narrow,  with  nothing  on  it  but  pleasure  carriages, 
was  now  wide  and  full  of  large  things  that  went  along  by  them 
selves  on  tracks,  with  poles  on  their  tops  attached  to  a  wire.  They 
were  crowded  with  people,  who  sat  on  seats  or  on  top  of  each 
other.  And  the  people !  Instead  of  wearing  silk  waistcoats,  velvet 
clothes,  lace  cuffs  and  stocks,  knee-breeches,  three-cornered  hats, 


GLEANINGS  89 


powdered  wigs,  and  shoes  with  buckles,  the  men  wore  coarse 
black  or  blue  clothes,  long  trousers,  slouched  hats,  plain  waist 
coats,  and  laced  boots.  And  the  women!  Instead  of  wearing 
beautiful  frocks  and  high  heeled  slippers,  and  hats  with  graceful 
feathers,  were  dressed  almost  like  the  men!  !  Another  thing 
which  astonished  me  greatly  was  that  there  were  vehicles  that 
moved  without  horses.  The  trees  that  only  yesterday  were  ten  feet 
tall  had  suddenly  grown  in  one  night  to  enormous  giants.  "Is  it 
possible  that  such  a  miracle  could  be  performed?"  I  asked  myself. 
I  thought  once  more  that  I  was  dreaming,  but,  no,  I  touched  my 
self  again,  and  found  as  before  that  I  was  awake.  All  around 
me  everything  had  changed.  I  looked  out  for  a  little  while  in  a 
daze,  when  suddenly  a  machine,  having  two  wheels,  and  making 
a  chugging  noise,  with  a  man  sitting  on  it,  came  dashing  past  at  a 
reckless  speed.  What  could  this  wonderful  thing  be? 

I  thought  that  I  had  better  go  to  my  office  down  town,  so  I  ran 
upstairs  to  get  my  hat.  When  I  got  it  I  went  out  and  more  won 
ders  awaited  me.  Along  -the  side  of  the  streets  were  rows  of  posts 
with  glassy  things  on  top  of  them.  As  I  saw  no  stage  coach  to 
get  into  to  go  to  Boston,  I  decided  to  walk.  As  I  went  along,  all 
the  people  jeered  at  me  and  called  me  "The  Man  of  a  Hundred 
Years  Ago."  Very  soon  I  came  to  a  bridge,  which  was  differ 
ent  from  the  one  that  had  been  there  before.  I  was  very  much 
astonished  at  seeing  it,  and  thought  I  must  be  on  the  wrong 
street.  By  this  time  a  crowd  had  gathered  around  me,  pushing 
and  jamming  each  other.  They  yelled  and  jeered  at  me  so  loudly 
that  I  was  obliged  to  put  my  fingers  up  to  my  ears,  so  that  they 
would  not  make  me  deaf.  If  I  had  been  on  the  wrong  street,  to 
turn  back  would  have  been  impossible.  In  getting  into  Boston 
how  changed  was  everything!  What  yesterday  had  been  water, 
was  now  all  solid  earth  covered  with  buildings,  that  seemed  to 
reach  to  the  sky.  I  walked  over  this  ground,  thinking  every  minute 
that  it  would  sink  down  beneath  me.  I  soon  came  to  the  place 


90  GLEANINGS 


where  my  office  had  been  yesterday.  I  pulled  out  the  key  from 
my  pocket,  and  put  it  to  the  lock,  but  it  did  not  fit.  On  looking 
up  to  see  if  my  office  had  changed,  I  saw  that  it  was  no  longer 
made  of  wood,  but  of  brick,  and  had  grown  eight  stories  since  yes 
terday.  I  fell  down  unconscious  and  the  last  sensation  I  had  was 
that  of  being  jolted  over  the  pavements  in  a  cart,  having  a  gong, 
one  man  holding  my  pulse,  while  another  whipped  the  horse.  I 
was  later  taken  home,  and,  as  soon  as  I  came  to  myself,  I  wrote 
the  preceding  words.  , 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


YOUTH'S  PLEASURES  ARE  FLEETING. 

Chapter  I. 

He  was  nineteen  and  good-looking,  yes,  very,  but  what  was  it 
that  made  him  so  attractive,  that  fascinated  all?  His  forehead 
was  high,  and  its  lines  showed  that  he  was  fond  of 
philosophy  and  that  he  was  given  to  deep  thought  and  medi 
tation.  The  hair,  which  covered  his  well  shaped  head,  was 
raven  black,  and,  although  not  curly,  was  of  striking  beauty.  But 
those  eyes!  How  can  they  be  described?  Let  one  but  look  into 
those  liquid  depths,  the  mirrors  of  the  soul,  and  love,  first  love, 
will  dawn  upon  the  gazer.  How  different  from  others  were  those 
eyes!  He  talked  by  their  magic  power,  and  each  moment  he  en 
tangled  his  listener  more  and  more  in  the  irrevocable  spell,  which 
he  cast.  His  life  at  college  did  not  ruin  him,  for  his  will  was  un 
conquerable,  and  his  character  was  of  the  strength  of  iron.  His 
influence  on  his  fellow  students  was  marked,  for  he  gained  the 
love  and  respect,  as  well  as  the  admiration,  of  all. 


GLEANINGS  91 


Chapter  II. 

Two  years  have  fled.  The  languorous  August  afternoon  drags 
on.  Summer  vacation  is  almost  over,  and  the  sea,  the  beach,  and 
all  the  many  attractions  of  the  Maine  coast  will  soon  have  fled. 
But  his  mind  will  ever  retain  those  happy  moments  so  joyously 
spent. 

Along  the  path,  leading  to  the  cove,  comes  the  same  boy,  now 
a  man.  His  cheeks  are  ruddy  with  the  glow  of  youth  and  his 
thoughtful  eyes  sparkle  with  pleasure  and  happiness,  for  at  his 
side  walks  a  slender  girl,  whose  face  is  indescribably  beautiful, 
and  whose  dark  eyes  are  strangely  contrasted  with  her  wealth  of 
golden  hair.  A  dangerous  Southern  beauty!  Yes!  The  power 
of  love  is  felt  in  the  green  fields,  stretching  away  on  either  hand, 
in  the  deep  blue  sea  in  the  distance,  in  the  monotonous  croak  of  the 
frogs  from  the  lily-pond,  and  in  the  sweet  refrains  of  the  song 
birds.  No  word  is  spoken  until  the  cove,  with  its  weeping  willows, 
is  reached.  Wearied  from  their  long  walk  among  the  pine-woods, 
they  sit  in  the  shade  under  the  protecting  branches  of  the  gigantic 
trees,  the  water  dashing  against  the  rocks  before  them,  and  the 
green  pastures  behind. 

"Dearest,"  he  says,  and  the  fountain  of  true  love  surges  within 
the  girl's  heart,  "you  know  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you.  Darling, 
I  love  you,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  words  cannot  tell  how 
much.  Will  you,  will  you  be  mine?" 

Can  it  be  possible  that  this  is  the  same  boy,  who  has  hitherto 
been  devoted  to  philosophy  and  thought  ?  At  his  words  she  rises. 
He  can  no  longer  resist  the  -temptation.  With  violence  he  draws 
her  to  him.  Like  a  child  she  lies  with  rapture  in  his  protecting, 
loving  arms,  while  he  imprints  kisses  on  her  bare  arms,  her  neck, 
her  beautiful  face  and  her  hair. 

The  birds  sing,  but  their  key-note  is  joy  and  thanksgiving,  the 
sea  rolls  on,  but  its  sounding  waves  contain  the  magic  secret  of 
love. 


92  GLEANINGS 

Chapter  III. 

It  is  an  August  evening  six  years  later;  the  shades  of  twilight 
are  slowly  deepening ;  the  birds  fly  away  to  rest,  and  the  man,  now 
advanced  in  years,  sups  with  his  beautiful  wife  beneath  the 
spreading  trees  to  the  sound  of  Parisian  music.  What  bliss  on  a 
hot  night  to  look  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  forget  in  the  happy, 
fleeting  present,  the  bands  playing  "Plus  d' Amour,  plus  de  Roses," 
the  reflections  on  the  past,  and  dreams  of  the  future!  What 
place  more  charming  to  spend  a  married  life  than  the  gay  capital 
of  France? 

Soon  after  their  return  to  America,  a  son  is  born  to  the  two 
beloved,  but  it  is  not  fated  that  -they  shall  long  enjoy  happiness, 
for  the  lovely  mother,  with  the  pale  cheeks,  profusion  of  light 
hair,  and  delicate  hands,  is  wasting  away  visibly  day  by  day.  She 
is  soon  laid  to  rest  in  the  little  cemetery  with  its  silvery  poplars, 
leaving  behind  her  two  loved  ones,  filled  with  the  memory  of  a 
sweet  harmonious  life.  Why  do  we  mourn  for  those  who  are 
taken  from  us ;  are  they  not  happier  in  their  celestial  home  ? 

Chapter  IV. 

The  boy,  although  like  his  father  in  strength  of  will,  has  the 
far-away  look,  which  was  in  the  mother's  eyes;  he  thinks  con 
tinually,  and  loses  himself  in  meditation.  Day  by  day,  father 
and  son  become  dearer  to  each  other.  Day  by  day  their  mutual 
love  increases,  and  He  burns  with  a  desire  to  revisit  the  home  of 
His  youth,  the  sunny  plains  of  Maryland,  where  so  many  happy 
hours  had  been  spent  by  Her  side.  They  go,  but  the  well  known 
spots,  awaking  tender  memories,  only  bring  sorrow  to  both,  and 
they  long  to  go  to  Her. 

Spring  is  here,  the  boy,  delicate  as  his  mother,  is  no  longer 
strong,  and  father  and  son  realize  they  are  not  to  remain  long 
together.  The  sad  day  arrives,  and  the  little  son  passes  away  to 
his  mother. 


GLEANINGS  93 


The  fresh,  green  leaves,  summer  flowers,  and  autumnal  hues 
come  and  go.  The  father  shows  kindness  to  everyone,  and  man, 
woman  and  child  love  and  respect  him.  Each  day  he  visits  the 
little  grave  in  the  cemetery,  so  peaceful  and  quiet.  The  leaves 
rustle  in  spring,  and,  in  summer,  roses  and  lilies-of-the-valley 
surround  the  little  headstone. 

Chapter  V. 

Autumn,  with  her  gay  though  sad  colors,  has  passed  over  the 
land,  and  winter  comes,  gently  covering  the  earth  with  his  peace 
ful  garment  of  snowflakes.  'Tis  a  cold,  chilly  day,  the  snow  falls 
lightly  and  gently  as  along  the  deserted  street  slowly  marches  the 
funeral  procession.  The  melody  of  Chopin's  march  is  heard,  and 
the  mourners  walk  with  bowed  heads,  lost  in  reverie.  The  body 
is  lowered  into  the  cold,  damp  earth,  the  words,  "Well  done,  thou 
good  and  faithful  servant !,"  are  heard  mingled  with  the  moaning 
of  the  wind  in  the  swaying  pine-trees.  But  He  has  long  ago 
joined  his  two  beloved  ones  in  Paradise,  never  to  be  separated 
from  them. 

The  wind  still  sighs,  the  mourners  turn  homewards,  the  snow- 
flakes  fall  silently,  and  night  descends  over  all. 

Finis. 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 


His  EXPENSIVE  PURCHASE. 

It  was  a  sultry  June  day  and,  after  lunching  at  the  club,  I 
strolled  down  the  park.  The  sky  with  its  dark  clouds  looked 
ominous  of  rain,  which  was  sadly  needed  by  the  dusty  grass  and 


94  GLEANINGS 


thirsty  flowers.  As  I  passed  by  the  Dead  Letter  Office  an  auction 
of  mis-sent  packages,  which  was  going  on  inside,  attracted  my  at 
tention,  and,  as  I  had  no  prospects  of  amusement  for  the  after- 
noon,  I  decided  to  try  my  luck.  I  therefore  entered  a  large  room, 
where  an  auctioneer  stood  high  up  on  a  pedestal,  displaying  a 
large  bundle. 

"Ninety-five!  Who'll  give  me  a  dollar?"  I  heard  above  the 
murmur  of  the  assembled  crowd.  "Ninety-five  cents,  going. 
"Ninety-five  cents,  going.  Will  anyone  give  me  a  dollar?  Nine 
ty-five  cents,  gone !"  And  the  hammer  came  down  with  a  thump 
on  the  table.  Whereupon  the  purchaser,  rather  an  old  man  with 
dilapidated  clothes  and  a  gray  wig,  hobbled  up  to  the  table  amid 
a  death-like  silence,  paid  for  his  bundle,  and  proceeded  to  undo 
it.  The  strings  were  carefully  untied,  the  wrapping  paper  was 
removed,  and  a  large  white  woolly  dog  was  disclosed  to  view ! 
Shouts  of  laughter  from  the  on-lookers  greeted  the  childish  toy. 
With  a  sheepish  look,  the  old  man  left  the  building  with  the  dog 
under  his  arm. 

The  next  parcel,  destined  to  be  sold,  was  small,  square,  and 
neatly  done  up  in  white  paper  and  string. 

"There  must  be  something  fine  in  -this !"  shouted  the  auctioneer, 
displaying  the  bundle  on  high.  "Let's  start  it  at  three  dollars. 
Who'll  give  me  three?"  I  stood  in  the  back  of  the  room,  for  all 
the  chairs  were  occupied,  but  I  was  greatly  interested  in  the  pack 
age  for  some  unknown  reason. 

"Three!"  was  heard  from  a  woman  sitting  in  a  corner.  She 
was  veiled  and  spoke  indistinctly. 

"Four!"  I  cried. 

"Five !"  came  from  the  young  lady. 

"Five  dollars.     Will  anyone  give  me  six?     Going  for  five." 

"Ten !"  I  cried,  not  wishing  to  be  outdone. 

"Eighteen !"  called  back  my  fair  opponent. 

"Going  for  eighteen !     Anyone  give  me  twenty  ?" 


GLEANINGS  95 


This  was  getting  exciting.  "Twenty,"  I  cried,  determined  to 
procure  the  package  at  whatever  cost. 

"Twenty!  going.  Who'll  give  me  twenty-one?  Going  at 
twenty,  going  twenty,  going — gone !  Gone  for  twenty  dollars." 

How  dejected  my  baffled  opponent  appeared.  The  hammer 
fell,  resounding  throughout  the  crowded  room.  I  walked  up  and 
paid  the  money.  Taking  my  treasure  I  hurried  from  the  place, 
determined  to  be  the  object  of  neither  ridicule  nor  envy,  and  to 
open  it  in  my  room  in  peace,  in  spite  of  the  "open  it  !"s  from  many 
voices  and  of  the  furtive  glance  of  the  veiled  maiden. 

It  was  beginning  to  rain,  and,  retracing  my  steps,  I  soon  ar 
rived  at  my  lodgings  before  a  downpour.  The  air  was  much 
cooler,  chilly  in  fact.  I  entered  my  sitting  room,  up  two  flights, 
started  a  blazing  fire  in  the  large  fireplace,  lighted  my  pipe,  in 
stalled  myself  in  a  comfortable  chair  before  the  cheerful  blaze, 
and  proceeded  to  examine  my  purchase. 

"Twenty  dollars,"  I  mused.  "I  wonder  what  luck  has  brought 
me  this  trip."  I  looked  at  the  package,  three  by  five  inches  in 
size,  turned  it  over  and  examined  the  address,  which  read,  in 

printed  handwriting,  "Mr.  Stewart  Gordon,  63  Street, 

Washington,  D.  C."  Stamped  in  one  corner  was  "No  such  per 
son  here.  Dead  Letter  Office."  I  seemed  to  recognize  the  printed 
handwriting,  but  whose  was  it?  If  only  Helen  were  here  she 
could  surely  tell.  She  could  always  make  something  out  of 
nothing  and  unravel  mysteries.  How  I  longed  to  see  her  again. 
Only  a  few  weeks  more !  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  that  writing  be 
fore  somewhere,  but  where  ?  That  was  the  question.  I  removed 
the  outer  wrapper  with  care  and  disclosed  to  view  a  small  white 
box.  Was  it  a  scarf  pin?  I  shook  the  box,  and  a  queer  noise 
like  that  of  dried  leaves  was  heard.  I  took  off  the  cover.  Heav 
ens!  What  met  my  eye?  Neatly  placed  in  the  box  I  saw  two 
bunches  of  checkerberries  and  a  sweet  briar  rose!  How  deli 
cious  was  the  fragrant  odor  which  reminded  me  of  the  lovely 


96  GLEANINGS 


woods  in  which  I  had  so  often  walked  with  Helen !  How  dearly 
had  I  bought  the  few  dried  leaves !  Did  they  bring  joy  or  sor 
row?  I  looked  into  the  flames,  holding  the  box  in  my  hand.  I 
saw  before  me  Helen  and  her  refusal.  There  seemed  to  be  some 
connection  between  Helen  and  the  box  of  dried  flowers.  Could 
it  be  Helen's  handwriting?  I  still  loved  Helen,  although  she 
never  really  cared  for  me.  I  once  more  saw  her  in  the  sailboat 
with  me,  her  hair  blown  across  her  fair  flushed  face.  I  saw  her 
playing  tennis,  I  her  opponent. 

"Jack,"  she  seemed  to  say,  "this  will  be  a  love  set." 
Suddenly  I  was  awakened  from  my  reveries  by  a  knock  on  the 
door.  I  started  from  my  chair.  All  disappeared.  Nothing  re 
mained  but  the  box  in  my  hand.  As  I  opened  the  door,  my  land 
lady  thrust  in  a  letter.  I  sat  down  again  in  my  chair  to  read  it. 
It  had  stopped  raining,  dusk  had  come,  and  by  the  dim  light  of 
departing  day  and  the  coals  of  the  fire,  I  read  the  wedding  an 
nouncement  of  Helen  Rice  and  Stewart  Gordon. 

Ah !  I  knew  it  all.  The  box  was  a  remembrance  of  her  happy 
days.  Helen  had  never  cared  for  me,  and  with  one  toss,  the 
box,  its  contents  and  the  announcement  were  caught  by  the  dying 
embers,  and  left  me  with  a  heart  pang,  bought  with  twenty  dol 
lars. 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

WHEN  EYE  MEETS  EYE. 

Chapter  I. 
Conrad's  Disappointment. 

Music  and  laughter  floated  in  from  the  crowded  ball-room,  but 
here  in  the  alcove  it  was  cool;  the  refreshing  December  breeze 


GLEANINGS  97 


came  wafted  in  at  the  open  window  and  stirred  the  leaves  of  the 
palms.  Under  the  palms,  in  opposite  corners  of  the  room,  two 
sofas  were  ranged,  on  one  of  which  sat  a  girl  of  about  twenty. 
She  was  of  striking  beau-ty;  her  fresh  rosy  cheeks  matched  the 
rose  bud  in  her  light,  fluffy  hair,  her  eyes  were  of  deep  hazel 
brown,  and  there  was  a  dimple  on  each  side  of  her  pearly 
white  teeth.  Frances  Cambrai  wore  a  princess  dress  of  light  blue 
silk,  which  showed  to  advantage  her  well  shaped  figure. 

"Frances,"  said  her  companion,  Mr.  Stuart  Gilbert,  a  tall  man 
with  a  handsome  face  and  attractive  eyes,  "let  me  get  you  an 
other  ice."  He  rose,  and,  as  he  left  the  alcove  by  the  door  leading 
to  the  dancers,  a  man  of  medium  height  entered  it  from  the  op 
posite  one.  Frances  looked  up  and  her  eyes  met  those  of  the 
stranger.  Eye  met  eye  only  for  an  instant,  but,  like  an  electric 
shock,  love  arose  with  fervor  in  each  heart.  He  passed  through 
the  small  room  and  was  gone.  Conrad  Winslow,  twenty-five,  and 
the  only  son  of  the  rich  banker,  James  Winslow,  had  up  to  now 
merely  existed.  More  money  than  he  could  spend  had  made  him 
blase,  he  had  never  cared  for  the  society  of  women,  and  he  had 
come  to  the  Gillette's  ball  only  because  it  was  less  boring  than 
staying  at  home.  For  the  first  time  he  loved,  and  thought  that 
perhaps  after  all  life  might  be  made  worth  while.  He  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  meet  this  fair  stranger,  to  talk  with  her  on  the 
sofa  in  the  dim  light,  under  the  spreading  palm.  He  must  get 
Charles  Gillette  to  introduce  him.  But  where  was  Charles? 
Conrad  wandered  through  the  now  emptying  rooms  until  he  found 
Charles  playing  billiards.  It  was  two  o'clock,  and,  when  they 
reached  the  alcove,  Frances  had  left.  Bitter  disappointment  filled 
Conrad's  heart. 


98  GLEANINGS 


Chapter  II. 

The  Accident. 

Winter  passed  and  spring  came,  without  Conrad's  seeing  Fran 
ces,  whose  stay  in  New  York  had  been  very  short;  but  her 
image  was  not  blotted  from  Conrad's  memory.  Conrad  stayed 
with  his  family  at  Newport,  but  during  the  summer  he  found  his 
way  to  Maine. 

Summer  found  the  Cambrais  at  their  seashore  house  at  York 
Harbor,  Maine.  Frances'  days  were  passed  in  tennis,  bathing, 
driving,  riding,  or  canoeing  on  the  picturesque  river.  Dances, 
teas  and  picnics  also  occupied  Frances'  attention,  but  she  pre 
ferred  above  all  to  ride  her  stalwart  horse,  Phoebus,  alone.  It 
was  a  warm  August  afternoon,  and  Frances  started  out  with 
Phoebus.  Along  the  shaded  pine-tree  road,  with  the  blue  sea  in 
the  distance,  she  trotted,  when  suddenly  a  large  automobile  ap 
peared  around  a  turn  in  the  road.  Phoebus,  frightened  by  the 
large  car,  reared  suddenly  on  his  hind  legs  and  threw  his 
mistress,  who  was  a  good  horse-woman  but  unaccustomed  to 
such  actions  from  trustworthy  Phoebus.  Frances  was  thrown 
with  force  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the  road.  When  the  in 
telligent  animal  saw  there  was  no  cause  for  fear,  and  what  the 
consequence  of  his  terror  had  been,  he  was  troubled.  He  was  in 
the  act  of  sniffing  his  mistress'  dress,  when  a  youth,  having 
recognized  Frances,  leaped  from  the  car,  got  some  water  from  a 
neighboring  spring,  and,  dashing  it  in  her  face,  helped  her  to  soon 
recover  consciousness.  Phoebus  was  led  home  by  the  chauffeur, 
Frances  returned  home  in  the  motor  car,  and  from  that  time  on 
Conrad  and  Frances  became  firm  friends. 


GLEANINGS  99 

Chapter  III. 
Lovers'  Cove. 

Along  the  sparkling  river  came  drifting  a  green  canoe  with  two 
occupants.  One  was  a  handsome  man  with  raven  black  hair, 
deep-set  shiny  eyes,  a  well-shaped  nose,  and  a  mouth  and  face  on 
which  happiness  beamed;  the  other,  a  pretty  girl,  with  ruddy 
cheeks,  arrayed  in  white  muslin.  It  was  warm  and  they 
kept  along  the  bank  until  they  reached  a  shady  cove,  into  which 
they  paddled.  The  banks  of  the  cove  were  edged  with  silver 
birch-trees,  which  were  reflected  in  the  limpid  water,  and,  at  the 
end  of  the  small  indentation  was  a  white  birch  bridge,  under 
which  the  water  flowed  down  in  a  gentle  stream  among  some  dark 
green  ferns. 

"Frances,"  he  cried  with  fervor,  "you  know  what  I  have 
wished  for  so  long  to  say  to  you.  Dearest !  I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart;  mere  words  cannot  tell  how  great  my  love — " 

"Conrad,"  she  interrupted,  "why  do  you?  My  soul  has  been 
filled  with  your  image  ever  since  I  first  saw  you." 

"Will  you,  darling,  will  you  be  mine?"  and  he  leaned  forward 
and  caught  his  beloved  one  in  his  arms. 

A  faint  "yes"  is  heard,  eye  meets  eye,  and  lip  meets  lip  in  one 
sweet  prolonged  kiss. 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

JACK'S  ADVENTURE  AT  THE  CIRCUS  PARADE. 

(A  boy  from  Way  Down  East  is  speaking.} 

As  I  had  been  good  f er  two  whole  days  Ma,  wishin'  ter  reward 
me,  said  she'd  take  me  ter  see  de  circus  peerade.  Per  weeks  me 
an'  me  pal,  Jim,  had  looked  at  de  posters  aroun'  de  shtreets  whicht 


100  GLEANINGS 


pictured  de  finest  tings.  Der  was  a  real  live  man  from  Borneo, 
dat's  what  Jim  says  ut  said  underneat',  'cause  Jim  'e  can  read, 
an'  a  snake  charmer  woman,  wot  winds  thim  shlimy  tings  aroun' 
'er.  "  How  dar'st  she  do  ut?  Ain't  she  afeart  dey'll  shting  'er?" 
says  I  ter  Jim.  But  Jim  said,  "No!"  an'  'e  allus  knows,  'cause 
Jim  'e's  seven,  an'  me,  I'm  five.  Dey  'ad  all  kins  uv  animuls 
an'  ladies  wot  rid  on  horses  on  deyre  toes,  an'  gents  an'  ladies 
wot  shwing  an'  jump  way  up  in  de  air,  an'  ever'tin  shlick. 

Wai,  'twas  a  fine  day,  an'  we  shtarted  off  dressed  ter  kill,  me  in 
me  new  shailor  shoot,  wid  pockuts,  an'  Ma,  she  wore  a  red  hat, 
shtuck  up  on  one  en',  an'  a  new  green  dress.  Gosh !  but  Ma  wus 
shwell !  We  soon  gut  inter  de  crowd  an'  I  shtud  up  on  a  hydroant 
(dat's  wot  Jim  calls  ut)  so's  I  could  see  good.  Ma  was  shcart  to 
deat'  I  wud  fall,  but  I  didunt,  not  me.  I  see  de  peanut  man,  so 
I  gut  down  an'  made  Ma  git  me  some  peanuts  an'  pink  lamonade, 
wot  tastud  like  de  shtuff  Ma  giv'  de  baby  when  it  shqualls.  Den  I 
gat  up  agin  on  de  hydroant. 

"A  soun'  ov  trumpets  bruk  upon  de  air!"  Dat's  de  firs'  line 
uv  a  piece  of  pietry,  wot  Jim  harangues,  an'  up  de  shtreet  come  de 
fun,  'eaded  by  lots  uv  big  aliphants,  wid  people  on  top  in  fine  cloe<* 
an'  shpangly,  an'  cages  uv  animuls  an'  horsus  an'  gyraffes  an' 
dunkays  wid  clowns  on  deyre  backs.  One  clown  shpecial  tuk  me 
fancy ;  'e  'ad  on  a  white  shoot,  wot  shtuck  out,  cover'  wid  red 
shpots  ,a  big  poke  dunce-cap,  like  wot  yer  git  in  shnappers,  an'  a 
pig-tail  out  behin'  wid  a  red  ribband  on  de  tip  en' !  'E  was  sittin' 
in  a  'shpress  cart,  hitch'  wid  a  shtring,  an'  pull'  by  a  clown  wot 
shat  on  de  dunkay.  'Is  face,  de  one  in  de  cart,  wus  white  all  over, 
an'  'e  'peart  so  jolly  dat  I  wanted  ter  up  an'  shpeak  ter  'im.  I 
tought  I'd  just  see  if  Ma  'ad  'er  eye  on  me,  "Ah!"  sez  I  to  meself, 
for  der  wuz  Missus  Thorp  wid  'er  Bill,  talkin'  wid  Ma. 

"Oh!  yes,"  I  'card  Ma  say,  "Jack  'e's  such  a  good  ickle  chap, 
I  never  'ave  to  look  arter  'im,  'e  shticks  ter  yer  like  a  bur." 

"Oh  yas,"  tought  I,  "now's  me  time,"  an'  out  inter  de  shtreet 


GLEANINGS  101 


I  goes,  pushin'  troo  de  crowd  uv  mucks.  Bump !  over  de'  'shpress 
cart  went.  It  'it  a  shtone,  an'  out  tumbl'  de  clown. 

"Hoi'  on  fellahs,"  sez  'e,  an'  perceivin'  uv  me,  "Hi !  kid,  how'd 
yer  like  a  ride  ?  Git  in !  Giddap !"  I  didna  have  ter  be  bidded 
twice.  But  I  didna  like  ut  as  much  as  I  tought  I  wud,  fer  it  was 
tumble  bumpity,  an'  de  mucks  laugh'  as  we  wint  by,  an'  holler' 
out,  "Willy  boy !",  but  why  dey  hooted  at  me  I  couldna  make  out. 
I  soon  akst  de  clown,  wot  wus  walkin'  'long  side  uv  me,  ter  take 
me  oud  agin. 

"Are  yer  tired  uv  it  so  soon,  young  'un?"  sez  'e,  but  'e  tuk 
me  out  an'  I  went  ter  look  fer  me  Ma.  I  shposed  she'd  shtill  be 
talkin'  wid  Missus  Thorp,  but — where  wus  Ma  anyhow?  I  gut 
back  ter  de  place  whar  I  seed  her  last,  but  she  warn't  thare.  Gosh ! 
wha'd  she  tink  she's  doin'  anyhow?  Wha'd  she  gone  off  fur? 
Jiminy!  I  didna  know  de  way  home,  an'  Pa  wud  give  me  de 
shlipper  if  I  ever  did  git  home.  Durn  it  all! 

"Say,  little  boy,  have  yer  lost  yer  Ma?"  an'  a  cop  come  up  an' 
grab'  me  by  me  new  shailor  collar.  Come  here,  yer  little  brat !"  an' 
'e  carried  me  ter  whar  I  f  oun'  Ma,  who  was  cryin'  like  a  waterin' 
cart,  wid  every  bloomin'  person  lookin'  at  'ef,  an'  de  tears  were 
makin'  shpots  on  de  green  silk,  an'  de  red  hat  all  on  de  wrong  eye. 

I  made  it  all  right  on  de  way  'ome,  an'  Ma  she  says  arterwards 
ter  Pa,  "Jack  'e's  sich  a  nice  little  comforter.  Lave  de  shlipper 
be  fer  dis  trip."  Pa  'e  muttered  sumtin'  about  "de  durn  cuss 
shpylt  his  Ma's  new  silk,"  an  chuck  de  shlipper  under  de  bed. 

Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

WHAT  THE  NEW  YEAR  BROUGHT. 

What  is  love  but  a  mingling  of  two  hearts,  sometimes  for  hap 
piness  and  sometimes  for  grief  ?  Why  is  it  not  conventional  that 
we  should  outspeak  our  deeper  feelings  of  affection  for  others? 

One  evening,  in  the  Christmas  holidays,  two  young  people  sat 


102  GLEANINGS 


studying  in  a  cozy  parlor,  with  the  remains  of  a  cheerful  fire  in 
the  fireplace.  But  the  blaze  had  now  expired  and  the  dying 
embers  had  almost  gone  out.  Around  the  ruddy  glow  from  the 
great  lamp  there  seemed  to  be  a  homey  air  as  they  sat  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  table.  They  were  both  studying  Latin,  but  the  boy, 
about  sixteen,  was  involved  in  the  intricacies  of  Virgil,  while  the 
girl,  about  fourteen,  studied  Ovid. 

The  day  had  been  cold,  and  the  snow,  that  had  fallen  in  the 
early  morning,  lay  thick  on  the  ground,  and  the  cold  sunset  threw 
a  frigid  glare  on  the  white  earth.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the  old 
year,  and,  as  they  sat  studying,  their  thoughts  ran  on  the  pleasure 
their  vacation  had  afforded  and  on  what  a  good  time  they  had 
had  together.  Day  after  tomorrow  school  would  commence  again, 
their  minds  would  again  be  ground  down  to  lessons,  and  the  boy 
would  be  back  at  boarding-school.  But  an  end  must  come  to 
everything,  even  vacations.  Life  must  go  on  once  more  in  the 
granite  channels,  wearing  away,  inch  by  inch,  to  the  bed  of  the 
river,  Time,  which  would  bring  them  once  more  together.  In 
school  there  is  something  to  look  forward  to,  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  each  other.  "It  is  wanting  what  we  have  not  that  makes 
us  paupers."  How  could  anyone  put  his  or  her  entire  thoughts 
on  Ovid  and  Virgil,  writers  of  the  past,  when  love,  fresh,  bloom 
ing,  young  hope  and  love  are  alive  in  the  hearts  of  two  friends? 
They  had  always  known  each  other,  but  not  until  the  summer 
past  had  their  minds  awakened  to  the  reality  that  there  was  more 
than  friendship  between  them. 

Around  the  cozy  little  parlor  shone  a  ruddy  glow  of  warmth, 
more  than  terrestrial,  and  the  dying  embers  again  and  again  flick 
ered  up  in  a  sudden  flame  and  then  died  down  again,  like  the 
many  hopes  and  pleasures  of  youth,  which  please  for  the  time 
being  and  then  again  are  void. 

The  old  year  was  coming  to  an  end,  day  after  tomorrow  their 
paths  would  separate.  Ovid  fell  from  the  young  girl's  grasp,  into 


GLEANINGS  103 


her  lap,  and  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  table  and  her  head  in  her 
hand,  she  seemed  to  look  farther  than  into  her  immediate  sur 
roundings.  Not  noticing  her  apparent  dreaminess  for  some  time, 
the  boy  kept  on  studying  until  he  too  thought  of  his  career  for 
the  future.  Next  autumn  he  would  enter  Harvard.  Would  his 
college  career  be  worthy  of  the  girl  opposite,  dreaming  day  dreams 
of  her  ideal  of  boyhood,  the  one  she  loved?  How  he  longed  to 
embrace  her  delicate  form,  to  feel  her  against  him,  her  brown 
against  his  raven  hair. 

Suddenly  they  were  both  awakened  from  their  dreams  by  the 
book  falling  to  the  floor,  and  the  girl  arose  from  her  seat  and 
sat  on  the  sofa  nearby. 

"May  I  tell  you,  Florence  dear,  what  I  have  long  wanted  to?" 
he  murmured,  and,  rising,  he  sat  by  her  side  and  took  her  small, 
fair  hand  in  his  rough,  but  loving  one.  He  put  one  arm  around  her 
waist,  and,  drawing  her  near  him,  she  looked  up,  their  eyes  met, 
and,  bending  his  head,  he  kissed  her  pretty  cheek.  It  was  realized, 
the  longing,  anxious  thought  and  desire  of  many  weeks.  A  slight 
blush  suffused  the  cheek  of  the  maiden,  and,  prompted  by  a  sud 
den  impulse,  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  their  lips 
met  in  one  long,  loving  kiss.  All  their  dormant  affections  for 
each  other  were  awakened  at  this  moment  of  perfect  bliss.  Now 
was  the  time  of  all  times  to  be  happy. 

"I  love  you,  Florence  dear.  Will  you  be  mine?"  fell  from 
his  lips. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck.  The  New  Year  was  ushered  in  with 
happiness,  for  two  hearts  at  least. 


104  GLEANINGS 


Written  at  fifteen  years  of  age. 

PALOMA. 

"Chirp,  chirp,"  the  canary  bird  sang  monotonously,  keeping 
time  with  the  music  and  singing  going  on  below  in  the  luxurious 
parlor.  "Oh !  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove,  to  fly  away — away." 
The  sweet  voice  floated  out  on  the  evening  breeze,  and  the  dreamy 
eyes  of  the  young  girl  at  the  piano  were  fixed  on  some  object  or 
other  out  of  the  window.  The  song  was  ended  and  the  singer, 
a  slim,  graceful  woman  with  black  hair  and  sparkling  eyes,  still 
stood  pensive  by  the  piano,  on  whose  keys  the  girl's  hands  still 
lingered.  The  canary  had  ceased  its  song,  and  mother  and  daugh 
ter  stood  near  each  other  in  the  gloaming  amid  the  shadows  gath 
ering  in  the  comfortable  parlor,  with  its  satin  covered  chairs, 
book-shelves,  ornaments,  etc.  So  near  yet  so  far.  The  woman's 
thoughts  were  on  the  detailed  past ;  her  life  with  her  husband,  her 
ennui  of  him,  her  wish  for  another  life,  the  break  between  them, 
his  dismissal  by  her,  sixteen  years  ago,  and  her  begging  for  the 
guardianship  of  their  only  child.  The  girl's  mind  built  air  castles 
for  the  future.  She  stood  upon  the  moors  she  loved  so  much, 
away,  far  from  New  York  City,  alone  with  Nature  and  her  roar 
ing  torrents,  her  babbling  brooks,  her  bleak  hills  and  downs.  She, 
the  girl,  was  no  longer  weak  and  sickly,  but  strong  and  well  with 
brawny  arms  and  well  developed  muscles.  She  wondered  what 
had  become  of  her  father,  the  father  she  had  but  known  when  a 
baby.  Her  only  recollection  of  him  was  a  sun-burnt  face,  and 
strong  protecting  arms,  and  hair,  dark  in  contrast  with  her  own 
light  brown  curls.  Paloma,  her  father  had  named  her. 

'Twas  already  dusk  when  the  two  dreamers  awoke  from  their 
reveries  at  the  entrance  of  the  maid.  The  lamp  was  lighted,  and 
the  only  occupants  of  the  luxurious  house  retired  to  dress  for 


GLEANINGS  105 


dinner.  There  would  be  eight  for  dinner  that  evening,  then 
opera  later  on.  Mrs.  Bourbon  was  beginning  to  tire  of  this  hur 
ried  life;  dinners,  teas,  lunches,  operas,  balls.  Why  had  she  sent 
away  her  husband?  He  was  perhaps  not  such  a  bore  after  all. 
"Laissez-moi,  Annette.  Je  vous  appelerai  plus  tard,"  to  the  French 
maid,  who  had  been  picked  up  on  their  honeymoon  in  France. 
The  French  maid  was  dismissed  to  leave  Mrs.  Bourbon  to  her 
own  thoughts  and  reveries.  Why  had  she  been  so  brusque  and 
quick-tempered?  For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Bourbon  repented  the 
dismissal  of  her  Jack.  He  had  never  cared  for  the  social  life  in 
which  she  revelled.  He  loved  to  wander  about  in  the  country, 
and,  at  the  death  of  his  aged  father,  it  had  been  at  her  request 
that  they  came  to  New  York.  Yes !  she  had  been  left  an  orphan, 
poor  and  alone,  with,  an  elderly  aunt,  who  later  died,  leaving  her 
niece  a  fortune.  Why  did  these  thoughts  come  to  her  mind  at 
this  moment?  Had  she  not  once  been  a  poor  little  girl?  Why 
was  she  so  unappreciative  of  Jack's  goodness  to  her?  Did  he 
ever  think  of  her,  and  remember  her  former  love  for  him  ?  How 
kindly  had  he  left  her  their  only  child,  his  treasure,  his  darling. 
Not  once  in  all  these  years  had  she  heard  of  or  from  him.  Per 
chance  he  lived  no  longer.  At  the  thought  Mrs.  Bourbon's  heart 
began  to  beat  more  thrillingly.  The  door  opened  and  Paloma 
entered,  dressed  in  a  pale  lavender  silk  gown.  Her  bare  neck 
needed  no  jewel  for  adornment.  Her  own  fair  beauty  shone 
like  a  morning  glory,  but  so  pale  and  fragile  was  she  that  her 
mother  seemed  to  see  her  as  in  a  far-off  dream,  a  sprite  from 
another  sphere.  Paloma  seemed  often  dreamy  of  late.  Mrs. 
Bourbon  wondered  if  her  daughter  were  happy  in  this  life  of 
the  metropolis.  She  had  received  marked  attention,  but  her 
mother  did  not  think  that  anyone  had  as  yet  stolen  her  daughter's 
little  heart.  No  one  had  as  yet  turned  her  head. 

"Are  you  not  yet  dressed,  Mother  ?"  spoke  the  sweet  voice,  and 
Paloma's  beautiful  eyes  were  turned  full  upon  her  mother. 


106  GLEANINGS 


"No,  my  child,  but  I  will  be  soon.    Ring  the  bell,  dear  heart." 

A  few  hours  later  found  the  little  party  after  dinner.  When 
the  men  joined  the  women  later  in  the  drawing-room,  young  Dr. 
Carter  went  up  to  Mrs.  Bourbon.  "Paloma  is  not  as  healthy- 
looking  as  she  used  to  be,  Lucile.  This  hot  spring  weather,  com 
ing  so  early,  is  too  trying  for  her  nerves.  Give  up  Newport  for 
this  summer  and  take  her  abroad.  I  was  talking  with  her  confi 
dentially  a  few  days  ago,  and  I  learnt  that  she  has  ever  longed 
to  get  into  the  woods  and  leave  this  city  life.  Why  don't  you 
take  her  to  Brittany  ?  That  seems  to  be  an  ideal  spot." 

"As  she  came  to  me  just  now  I  thought  she  looked  peaked.  I 
believe  I  will  take  your  advice,  Percy." 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Bourbon — "  said  one  of  the  guests,  and  the  subject 

was  for  the  moment  dropped. 

***** 

'Twas  a  few  months  later  in  Brittany.  Mrs.  Bourbon  and  her 
daughter  had  stationed  themselves  at  a  small  cottage  by  the 
shore.  For  the  first  time  Paloma  was  blissfully  happy.  A  very 
different  life  from  the  usual  sojourn  at  Newport.  Mrs.  Bourbon 
also  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  life,  watching  the  fishermen  and 
their  boats  as  they  came  in  and  went  out,  and  the  wives  and 
daughters  mending  the  nets  and  sails.  How  strong,  healthy  and 
happy  were  all  the  homely  fisher- folk !  She  alone  was  mournful, 
mournful  and  sad,  longing  and  pining  for  him,  with  whom  she 
had  for  five  years  been  happy  before  she  began  to  tire  of  him. 
Where  was  he?  Mrs.  Bourbon  pondered  this  question  in  her 
mind,  hour  after  hour,  as  she  roamed  alone  or  with  Paloma  over 
the  rough,  bleak  shores. 

Often  Paloma  went  off  for  the  morning  or  afternoon,  without 
other  companion  or  playmate,  and  came  back  to  tell  her  poor 
mother  tales  of  some  fisher  lad,  with  whom  she  had  fallen  into 
conversation  on  the  beaches.  To  further  friendship  with  the 
fisher-folk,  Paloma  would  dress  in  their  picturesque  costume,  so 


GLEANINGS  107 


different  from  her  usual  luxuriant  gowns.  They  learned  to  love 
and  watch  for  that  happy  face,  the  fisher-people.  Each  moping 
babe  crowed  with  delight,  boys  left  their  tiny  miniature  crafts, 
girls  their  dolls,  made  from  some  bit  of  wreckage,  and  women 
their  work,  at  the  approach  of  Paloma,  who  ever  had  a  sweet 
word  and  some  comfort  for  all.  The  aged  and  infirm  ceased  to 
bewail  their  mournful  lots,  and  cherished  with  delight  each  sprig, 
plant  or  book  brought  them  by  the  thoughtful  Paloma. 

One  morn  as  Paloma  wandered  up  and  down  the  beach,  col 
lecting  shells  with  some  sons  and  daughters  of  the  fishermen, 
she  went  near  the  great  cliffs,  at  one  side  of  the  sandy  shore.  She 
felt  that  eyes  were  upon  her,  she  knew  not  whose.  Involuntarily 
she  turned  her  own  eyes  upward,  and  met  the  gaze  of  a  man  above 
her  on  the  cliffs.  Paloma  was  strangely  attracted  by  the  man  in 
fisher  costume,  with  sunburnt,  handsome,  well-formed  face, 
brawny  arms  and  mystical,  sparkling  eyes.  The  fisherman,  with 
dark  curly  hair,  was  looking  at  her  with  intent  gaze.  For  the  first 
time  Paloma's  heart  beat  furiously.  She  felt  her  very  soul  go  out 
toward  the  stranger  above  her.  With  difficulty  she  dropped  her 
eyes  to  the  ground,  picked  up  a  stray  shell,  left  her  young  com 
panions,  and  walked  quickly  homewards. 

"Agnes,  ma  chere,"  she  called  to  a  fishermaiden  on  the  other 
side  of  the  beach.  And  when  she  had  caught  up  to  her,  Paloma 
couldn't  resist  asking  a  few  questions  about  the  man  on  the  rocks. 

"C'est  un  monsieu  que  nous  appelons  Oncle  Johnson.  II  est 
venu  ici  il  y  a  quatre  ans  et  il  demeure  la-bas  seul  dans  une  cabane 
qui  appartient  a  Mme.  W.  II  peche  tou jours  avec  nous.  II  est 
revenu  hier  de  la  mer.  Hier  soir  il  m'a  demande  votre  nom,  car 
il  vous  a  apergu  sur  la  plage.  II  fut  bien  emu  quand  il  a  entendu 
votre  nom." 

The  information  caused  Paloma's  heart  to  beat  with  renewed 
vigor.  What  had  so  attracted  her  in  the  strange  man,  in  this 
strange  land  ?  Her  first  impulse  was  to  tell  her  mother  about  the 


108  GLEANINGS 


first  man  in  whom  she  had  been  interested.  But,  on  second 
thought,  she  believed  her  mother  would  perhaps  only  smile  to 
learn  that  the  sight  of  a  strange  fisherman  could  have  so  moved 
her,  when  the  love  of  scores  of  admirers  had  not  even  disturbed 
the  equilibrious  beat  of  her  heart.  That  night  Paloma  dreamt 
that  she  had  sunk  into  a  golden  bowl  of  fire,  the  setting  sun,  which 
did  not  burn  her,  but  which  gave  out  intense  heat.  Farther  and 
farther  she  sank  into  the  fiery  depths.  It  seemed  as  if  she  would 
never  leave  her  position  till  Eternity,  when,  she  felt  some  eyes, 
and  happening  to  look  up,  she  saw  the  eyes  of  the  strange  man, 
looking  down  from  behind  a  rainbow  of  light,  and  two  strong 
arms  outstretched  toward  her.  No  face,  no  face.  Only  those 
fascinating  eyes,  glaring  down  lovingly  and  seeming  to  burn  two 
great  holes  in  her  soul, — and  those  arms ! 

Mrs.  Bourbon  awoke  at  an  early  hour,  from  her  terrible  night 
mare,  with  a  start  and  a  piercing  cry.  The  Day  of  Judgment  was 
at  hand,  and  Mrs.  Bourbon  awaited  patiently  her  turn  to  stand 
before  the  blazing  Throne.  At  last  'twas  time  to  enter  the  shin 
ing  palace,  but,  as  she  entered  the  Judgment  Room,  the  song  of 
angel-trumpets  ceased,  with  bent  head  she  walked  with  slow  step 
toward  the  Throne  of  Grace.  Towards  her  came  her  deserted 
husband,  looking  many  years  older  than  when  she  last  saw  him, 
arrayed  in  angel  garb  of  spotless  white.  He  smiled  at  her.  With 
joy  she  put  forth  her  hands  to  clasp  him  to  her  repentant  heart. 
She  could  only  touch  his  outer  garment.  Her  fingers  left  a  mark 
of  black,  like  pitch.  He  faded  away  as  she  stretched  forth  her 
arms.  Only  the  two  spots  of  black  were  left.  They  seemed  to 
move  about  in  the  air,  onward  toward  the  Throne  at  the  end  of 
the  shining  hall,  where  sat  the  Trinity,  toward  which  she  dared 
not  turn  her  eyes.  The  two  black  spots  turned  into  two  terrible 
dark  eyes,  that  burned  and  seemed  to  cut  into  her  very  soul! 
They  pierced  through  her  like  fiery  torches,  although  they  were 
black,  not  red.  She  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  screamed 


GLEANINGS  109 


aloud  with  great  energy,  and  her  cry  sounded  and  resounded 
through  the  long,  silent  apartment.  And  still  the  eyes  burnt  her 
soul! 

The  morning  was  rather  foggy,  but  it  cleared  in  the  afternoon, 
and  Paloma,  arrayed  in  a  spotless  white  costume,  went  out  for  a 
little  walk  along  the  shore,  leaving  Mrs.  Bourbon  at  home.  Along 
the  bleak,  rugged  shore  walked  Paloma  with  measured  tread. 
Only  a  few  fisherman  huts  were  scattered  here  and  there  by  the 
sea,  covered  with  white-caps.  Further  and  further  she  walked, 
the  image  of  the  strange  man  always  before  her,  and  the  dream 
of  the  night  before  always  in  her  mind.  After  walking  several 
miles  Paloma  seemed  to  walk  almost  unconsciously,  the  eyes  and 
arms  outstretched  always  before  her.  She  knew  not  how  many 
miles  she  walked,  onward  ever  onward,  over  ground  on  which  she 
had  never  before  trodden.  Down  the  steep  cliffs  she  climbed, 
down  onto  the  soft,  sandy  shore.  The  tide  was  far,  far  out,  very, 
very  low,  and  the  sand  stretched  forth  in  miles  before  her.  How 
lovely,  how  beautiful !  Paloma  thought  an  instant  of  what  she 
might  be  doing  at  Newport.  She  compared  the  two  lives,  and 
satisfactorily  decided  that  this  was  by  far  the  better.  She  longed 
to  see  her  mother  well  again,  but  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to  stir 
forth  from  the  house  now,  always  brooding  over,  and  thinking  of 
the  past.  Paloma  thought  of  the  August  heat  now  in  Newport, 
and  she  took  in  long  breaths,  filling  her  lungs  with  the  delicious  sea 
air. 

The  distant  horizon  was  dotted  with  sail-boats  and  steamers 
plowing  their  way  along  the  Breton  shore,  the  snow-white  foam 
in  their  wake.  Alone  without  fear,  Paloma  walked  on  down  toward 
the  still  receding  tide.  As  she  walked  the  sand  became  wetter  and 
water  oozed  up  between  the  tiny  particles  of  mud.  Her  feet  left 
deep  indentations  in  the  ooze,  the  water  came  up  to  her  ankles  at 
each  step,  before  Paloma  became  aware  that  it  was  better  to  re 
trace  her  course.  The  sea  was  still  far  from  her,  and  her  thoughts 


110  GLEANINGS 


were  farther  still.  Sand-pipers  chirped  up  and  down  the  sand 
and  reminded  her  of  her  tame  canary.  Swish!  the  water  still 
came  up  around  her.  Paloma  with  difficulty  extricated  her  leg 
from  the  sandy  mud.  She  -turned  back,  the  sand  covered  one  leg 
as  far  as  her  knee.  Down  she  sank.  She  tried  to  go  onward. 
Her  feet  stuck  faster  at  each  step.  She  looked  and  saw 
that  the  sand  a  few  yards  round  about  her  shook  like  a  thing 
afraid.  'Twas  a  quicksand!  It  flashed  across  her  mind  in  one 
brief  instant.  Down  her  feet  sank.  They  were  both  up  to  the 
knees  now.  Could  she  reach  the  firm  sand  ?  No !  No  one  was  in 
sight.  In  one  moment  her  whole  life  flashed  over  her.  What 
would  her  mother  do  without  her?  What  good  to  scream?  She 
was  up  to  her  waist.  A  cry,  a  shill  piercing  scream,  rent  the  air 
and  affrighted  the  little  sand-pipers  and  wandering  sea-gulls. 
How  happy  were  all  those  birds!  "Oh!  that  I  had  wings  like  a 
bird,"  thought  the  poor  struggling  girl.  Another,  another  cry 
rent  the  air.  No  one  to  hear.  Her  waist  was  covered  by  the 
oozing  sand.  What  a  death!  That  of  a  beast  or  of  a  cow. 
Down,  farther  and  farther  down.  She  tried  to  clutch  the  sand 
around  to  gain  a  hold.  In  vain!  No  stick  or  bit  of  wreckage 
near.  And  the  sand  around  shook,  and  the  bright  sun,  almost 
setting,  seemed  to  shine  more  brightly,  a  looker-on  at  her  terrible 
misery.  Another  scream,  despairing  and  prolonged,  rang  out 
across  the  beach.  Paloma  was  held  fast  and  firmly  by  the  treach 
erous  sand. 

Farther  down  the  sky  came  the  sun.  Paloma  wondered  if  the 
sun  would  set  before  she  would  be  completely  swallowed  up. 
"Who  will  be  the  first  to  disappear  from  the  world,  this  cruel 
world?"  thought  Paloma.  The  sand  had  almost  reached  her 
shoulders,  and  the  glorious  sun  had  almost  reached  the  horizon. 
The  sun,  the  unmoved  witness  of  so  many  deaths,  the  cold,  chill 
ball  of  fire.  The  sky  around  the  sun  was  tinged  with  orange, 
purple  and  crimson,  the  sails  on  the  sea  were  touched  with  pink, 


GLEANINGS  111 


the  sunset  was  reflected  in  the  moving,  rippling  water,  and  the 
sands  appeared  a  deep  purple.  A  scream,  a  heart-rending  cry. 
Paloma's  mind  worked  like  lightning.  She  remembered  her  dream 
of  the  night  before.  Perchance  it  was  a  sign  of  warning.  There 
was  the  great  blazing  sun.  Where  were  the  eyes,  those  eyes,  his 
eyes?  The  sand  had  almost  mounted  to  her  neck.  What  use  to 
cry  ?  No  one  could  hear  her.  No  human  habitation  within  a  mile. 
Oh!  What  torture  when  she  would  feel  her  head  going  down 
under,  inch  by  inch.  With  the  sand  up  to  her  neck,  and  her  dream 
ever  in  her  mind,  Paloma  looked  upward.  At  the  end  of  the  long 
beach,  up  on  the  moors,  she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man.  Joy,  hope 
flashed  across  her,  and  sent  thrills  through  her  mind.  Again  and 
again  she  screamed.  "Help!  Help!"  Thank  God!  The  figure 
had  seen,  he  had  understood.  Paloma  bad  been  able  to  uncover 
her  arms  from  the  sand,  and  she  held  them  upward.  Nearer  he 
came,  he  was  running  with  all  his  strength.  He  picked  up  a  bit 
of  wreckage  and  held  out  the  rope,  which  was  in  his  grasp,  the 
painter  of  a  boat.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  came.  He  had  de 
scended  the  cliffs  and  was  crossing  the  distance  between  Paloma 
and  himself  with  great  rapidity.  With  caution  he  stopped  at  a 
little  distance  from  where  she  was  sinking,  and  threw  forth  the 
rope.  Paloma  looked  at  him,  at  the  outstretched  arms.  It  was 
He!  Her  heart  beat  violently.  She  caught  the  rope,  he  pulled 
upward.  She  held  on  tighter.  With  all  his  strength  he  hauled 
at  the  strong  rope,  which  held  firm.  All  the  weight  came  on  her 
arms.  They  felt  as  if  they  would  be  pulled  from  their  sockets. 
At  last  she  felt  herself,  her  body,  being  hauled  from  the  terrible 
quicksand  and  dragged  across  it  with  great  agility  toward  her 
rescuer.  Her  dream,  her  dream,  kept  flashing  across  her  mind. 
That  sun-burnt  face,  those  eyes,  those  arms.  So  her  dream,  her 
dream  had  in  part  come  true  after  all.  She  was  out  of  danger! 
He  rushed  forward  and  picked  her  up  from  the  sand.  She  could 
bear  the  strain  no  longer  and  was  overcome  by  unconsciousness. 


112  GLEANINGS 


She  knew  nothing  more  till  she  awoke  in  her  own  bed  at  home, 
and,  looking  up,  she  saw  her  devoted  mother  bending  over  her, 
with  eyes  full  of  love  and  concern  for  her  daughter.  Paloma 
learned  from  her  mother  that  she,  Paloma,  had  been  carried  home 
by  two  fisherwomen,  who  told  the  tale  of  the  man,  who  had  made 
the  rescue,  and  who  had  entrusted  them  to  carry  her  home  from 
where  he  had  brought  her,  over  a  mile  from  the  quicksand,  he 
being  exhausted.  Mrs.  Bourbon  had  learned  the  name  of  her 
daughter's  rescuer  and  had  resolved  to  go  to  his  hut  that  very 
moment,  and  give  gracious  thanks  and  offer  remuneration. 
Paloma  did  not  wish  her  mother  to  venture  forth  unaccompanied 
after  dusk,  but  Mrs.  Bourbon,  against  the  wishes  of  her  daughter, 
whom  she  left  in  the  care  of  her  landlady,  set  forth.  It  was  a 
bright  moonlit  night,  and  the  high  full  moon  was  reflected  in  the 
great  ocean  water.  The  tiny  stars  twinkled  and  the  waves  beat 
as  ever,  as  they  will  till  Eternity,  against  the  great  cliffs.  The 
cottage,  for  which  Mrs.  Bourbon  was  bound,  was  situated  about 
a  mile  away,  down  by  the  sea  in  a  hollow,  surrounded  by  trees 
and  vines,  grape-vines  covering  the  cottage  walls.  Mrs.  Bourbon 
could  see  the  smoke  ascending  from  the  chimney  of  the  hut,  toward 
which  she  was  destined.  She  looked  up  at  the  smiling  moon- 
maiden,  when  suddenly  she  saw  a  dark  cloud  flit  across  the  moon, 
the  sky  darkened,  the  wind  blew,  and  a  storm  seemed  to  spring 
up.  Tiny  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall.  Mrs.  Bourbon  pulled  her 
wrap  closer  around  her. 

At  last  the  cottage  was  reached.  Mrs.  Bourbon  knocked,  but, 
receiving  no  reply,  she  opened  the  door  by  its  latch.  The  sky  had 
darkened  and  the  moon  was  no  longer  visible.  The  room,  into 
which  Mrs.  Bourbon  stepped,  was  dark,  save  for  the  light  thrown 
out  by  the  driftwood  fire  in  the  great  open  fireplace.  Before  the 
fire,  in  an  arm-chair,  sat  a  fisherman,  deep  in  thought.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  dying  coals  in  the  fireplace.  The  dreamer 
was  so  deep  in  meditation  that  he  did  not  hear  the  entrance  of 


GLEANINGS  113 


Mrs.  Bourbon,  who  stood  almost  fascinated  a-t  the  portal,  her  feet 
rooted  to  the  ground.  At  one  glance  she  took  in  the  room  with 
its  contents,  "too  good  for  a  mere  fisherman,"  thought  Mrs. 
Bourbon.  A  few  chairs,  a  desk,  a  table  covered  with  books,  and 
a  few  rude  pencil  sketches  adorned  the  apartment,  and  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  room  evidently  led  to  a  sleeping  chamber  beyond. 
A  few  nets  and  fishing  and  cooking  utensils,  also  a  small  oil- 
stove,  were  stowed  away  in  a  corner.  Altogether  the  room  and 
its  surroundings  were  neat  and  clean  in  comparison  with  the 
average  fisher-hut.  Suddenly  the  coals  in  the  fire  died  down, 
one  by  one,  till  the  room  became  quite  darkened.  The  rain  beat 
with  fury  against  the  walls  and  window-panes,  and  the  winds 
howled  and  roared  as  though  Aeolus  himself  were  abroad.  Mrs. 
Bourbon's  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth,  she  knew  not 
why,  she  dared  not  speak  for  some  unknown  reason.  Her  dream 
of  the  night  before  flashed  across  her.  she  seemed  to  be  once 
more  in  the  long,  silent  chamber.  She  dared  not  look  toward  the 
figure  stooping  forward  in  the  chair.  What  attracted,  what 
repelled  her?  With  difficulty  she  looked  toward  the  dreamer, 
who  seemed  almost  asleep.  At  that  moment  he  arose  to  get 
driftwood  for  the  replenishing  of  the  blaze.  The  room  was  quite 
dark,  save  for  the  glowing  coals.  One  coal  flickered  forth  an 
instant.  Mrs.  Bourbon  lowered  her  eyes.  The  society  woman, 
who  had  made  so  many  conquests,  lowered  her  gaze  before  this 
mere  fisherman  with  the  dark,  curly  hair.  She  did  not  see  his 
face,  but  he  saw  hers.  In  an  instant  his  attitude  changed,  he 
pulled  himself  together,  moved  away  from  the  burning  coals, 
pushed  forth  a  chair  toward  her,  into  which  she  dropped,  and, 
without  putting  driftwood  on  the  fire,  seated  himself  in  a  chair 
in  the  far  corner  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Bourbon  looked  toward 
him,  and  spoke. 

Something  about  the  man  in  the  corner  seemed  to  fascinate  her 
— she  spoke  in  a  trembling  voice  in  English,  she  knew  not  why. 


114  GLEANINGS 


"I  came  to  render  thanks  for  the  rescue  of  my  Paloma,  my  only 
child,  my  treasure,  the  only  remembrance  left  me  of  my — 
m-m-m-y  husband.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  Speak !  What  you 
ask  for,  whatever  money  can  buy  you,  will  be  yours,  only  speak." 
Mrs.  Bourbon  lost  entire  control  of  herself,  she  was  fascinated 
by  the  man  in  the  corner,  the  rescuer  of  her  daughter.  Why 
would  he  not  show  her  his  face?  It  was  probably  like  those  of 
all  the  other  fishermen,  but,  even  then,  why  did  he  move  into  the 
corner  so  far  away  from  her?  For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 
Mrs.  Bourbon  felt  once  more  the  oppressive  stillness  of  the 
Judgment-Room. 

At  last  he  spoke,  not  in  French  fisher-twang,  which  did  not 
surprise  Mrs.  Bourbon,  but  in  perfect  English,  "Madame,  I  have 
already  been  duly  thanked  for  the  rescue  of  Mile. ;  as  you  say, 
your  angel.  I  have  nothing,  and  yet  my  all,  to  wish  for,  but 
money  cannot  bring  back  that  happiness  to  me."  "What?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bourbon,  more  and  more  moved  and  thrilled,  for  some  un 
known  reason.  "It  is,"  slowly  in  clear,  distinct  English,  "it  is  my 

wife."     Crash ! ! !     A  terrible  peal  of  thunder  shook  the 

very  skies,  and  a  sharp  flash  of  lightning  lit  up  the  whole  apart 
ment.  Mrs.  Bourbon  seized  her  opportunity,  she  looked  full  at 
the  face  of  the  fisherman,  and  then  above  him  she  saw  a  pencil 
portrait  of  herself,  as  she  appeared  many  years  ago  in  her  wed 
ding  dress.  An  electric  thrill  shot  through  and  through  her. 
"Jack!"  she  cried,  and  the  cry  rang  through  the  hut,  and  was 
heard  above  the  noise  of  the  storm.  "O,  Jack!  it  is  you.  I  am 
Lucile,  repentant  and  lonely,  full  of  love,  of  love  for  you."  Once 
again  she  lay  in  his  arms  as  in  the  olden  days.  Once  more  she 
felt  the  beat  of  his  heart.  She  cared  not  for  the  poor  clothes  and 
the  surroundings.  Her  Jack  was  all  that  was  before  her,  all  the 
wide  world  seemed  so  far,  far  away.  She  had  reached  her 
Heaven.  Here  was  Paradise.  As  each  flash  lighted  up  the  room, 
Lucile  looked  up  into  her  husband's  eyes  and  read  in  them  fer- 


GLEANINGS  115 


vent  love,  while,  as  he  looked  down  into  hers,  he  read  there  truth 
and  repentance.  Another  crash,  another  lightning  flash,  and  yet 
another!  The  door  opened  and,  dripping  with  rain,  Paloma 
stepped  in,  unheard  by  the  two  lovers.  "Mother!"  was  heard. 
"Paloma!"  spoke  the  man,  whose  face  was  lighted  up  by  the 
flash.  "I  am  your  father!"  With  joy  the  girl  ran  to  the  arms 
of  her  restored  father.  One  arm  was  about  his  wife  and  the 
other  around  his  daughter.  All  were  happy.  The  bird  had 
found  its  haven  of  bliss,  and  looked  up  with  delight  into  those 
lovely  eyes.  The  storm  raged  on,  and  the  rain  beat  down  in 
torrents.  "  'And  then  at  last  our  bliss  full  and  perfect  is,  but  now 
begins,'  "  spoke  the  man. 


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